Y  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


LELIA    STEWART; 

* 


OR, 


THE    HEART    UNVEILED. 


BY 

WILLIAM   G.  CAMBRIDGE, 

AUTHOR   OF 

"THE    PARISH    FARM." 


The  brave  do  never  shun  the  light : 

Just  are  Iheir  thoughts,  and  open  are  their  tempers ; 

Truly  without  disguise  they  love  or  hate  : 

Still  are  they  found  in  the  fair  face  of  day, 

Arid  Heaven  and  men  are  judges  of  their  actions." 


BOSTON: 
HIQGrlNS      &      BRADLEY, 

20   WASHINGTON   STREET. 

1857. 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853, 

BY  WILLIAM  O.  CAMBRIDGE, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts, 


STEREOTYPED     BT 

HOBART    &    ROBBINS, 

MEW   ENGLAND   TYPE   AND   STEREOTYPE    FOCNDER7, 
BOSTON. 


PREFACE. 


READER,  my  little  book  is  before  you,  and  I  would  fain 
believe  that  I  have  not  toiled  in  vain  to  make  it,  in  some 
degree  at  least,  interesting  and  worthy  of  your  approval. 
I  am  painfully  conscious  of  its  imperfections,  and  yet  I 
venture  to  hope  that  it  has  some  excellences  which  will  not 
be  entirely  overlooked,  even  though  you  find  many  defects 
and  blemishes.  What  though  there  are  broken  and  mended 
threads,  and  parts  which  are  rough  and  unfinished ;  they  do 
not,  I  trust,  mar  the  whole  fabric,  although  they  affect  its 
beauty  and  perfection.  The  mechanism  of  the  brain  is  not 
always  in  good  condition;  and  the  rushing  blood,  which 
turns  the  great  wheel  of  thought,  and  keeps  the  machinery 
in  motion,  sometimes  gets  low  and  sluggish  in  its  course,  so 
that  the  woof-threads  of  the  mind  are  not  shot  through  the 
warp  with  the  quickness  and  uniformity  which  insure 
Emdothness  and  perfection.  Again,  the  stream  rises  and 
daspes  on  impetuously,  and  the  machinery  is  uneven  in  its 
movements,  quick  or  slow ;  and  then  threads  are  broken  or 
but  loosely  drawn,  and  the  work  is  not  well  done.  It  is 
well,  at  such  times,  to  shut  down  the  gates,  and  let  the 
machinery  rest ;  but  the  poor  artisan  may  not  always  feel  at 


IV  PREFACE. 

liberty  to  do  so,  even  though  his  heart  aches  and  his  body  is 
full  of  pain. 

Some  may  inquire  if  the  things  here  narrated  are  true, 
and  4he  characters  real.  Such  questions  are  frequently 
addressed  to  an  author;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  they 
should  be,  for  his  book  may  contain  much  truth  beneath  a 
"  thin  veil  of  fiction,"  and  yet  he  may  not  choose  to  say  so. 
Whether  the  personages  in  my,  book  are  fictitious  or  other 
wise,  they  seem  real  to  me.  So  long  have  I  been  on  familiar 
terms  with  them,  that  it  is  difficult  to  persuade  myself  that 
they  are  only  the  shadowy  creations  of  the  mind. 

In  the  construction  of  my  work  I  may  have  used  matter 
which  was  not  my  own  ;  but  I  trust  my  sins  in  this  respect 
are  few  and  far  between.  Fine  figures  and  beautiful  thoughts, 
which  others  may  rightly  claim,  may  be  used  unconsciously. 
The  trees  of  light  and  knowledge  are  full  of  golden  leaves, 
and  the  winds  waft  them  to  us,  and,  with  gratitude  in  our 
hearts,  we  gather  them  up  with  care,  and  drink  in  their 
beauty ;  and  it  would  not  be  strange  if  we  sometimes  felt 
and  used  it  as  though  it  were  our  own.  For  all  the  materials 
I  have  used  which  belong  to  other  authors,  I  offer,  it  being 
the  very  best  I  can  do,  my  most  unfeigned  thanks.  And,  as 
the  author  of  "  Richard  Edney  "  has  said,  "  If  those  from 
whom  I  have  borrowed  dislike  anything  of  theirs  in  this  con 
nection,  they  will  withdraw  it ;  should  they  chance  to  like 
anything  of  ours,  they  have  full  permission  to  use  it." 

I  have  written  this  book  with  the  very  best  intentions, 
hoping  that  it  might  do  good,  and  receive  a  welcome  in 
many  homes.  The  character  of  the  mother  of  Henri  may 


PREFACE.  V 

be  considered  as  overdrawn  and  unnatural,  but  J  know  that 
it  is  .'not  an  impossible  character.  Some  may  wish  that  the 
scenes  of  strife  and  contention  had  been  left  out.  I  highly 
respect  the  motives  of  such,  and  would  have  done  so  if  I  had 
deemed  it  consistent  with  my  plan,  and  with  the  characters 
described.  No  one  disapproves  of  such  scenes  more  than 
the  author  of  this  book;  and  if  anything  here  described 
should  lead  to  quarrelling  and  discord,  it  would  be  a  source 
of  lasting  regret. 

•  I  designed  the  work  to  be  reformatory  in  its  character ; 
and  so  I  have  advanced  ideas  which  are  unpopular,  and  by 
some  considered  Utopian,  and  by  others  in  advance  of  the 
age.  But  it  mattered  not  with  me  what  others  might  say  or 
think ;  for  I  cared  more  for  the  good  that  might  be  wrought 
than  for  the  approving  smiles  of  those  who  ever  walk  with 
their  backs  to  the  sun,  and  their  faces  to  the  past. 

So  much  by  way  of  preface ;  and  here  I  will  stop,  for  it 
is  not  needful  that  I  say  more.  Let  the  book  be  read,  and 
dealt  with  according  to  its  merits. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 
THE  RESCUE, : 25 

CHAPTER    II. 

SICKNESS.  —  OUR  FAMILY.  —  DISAPPOINTMENT, 42 

• 

CHAPTER    III. 
THE  DEACON  FOILED, 59 

CHAPTER    IV. 
MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER, 71 

CHAPTER    V. 
SEVERE  SICKNESS.  —  GOOD  NEWS, 79 

CHAPTER    VI. 
VISIT  TO  MY  UNCLE'S, 95 

CHAPTER    VII. 
THB  VICTORY, 101 

CHAPTER    VIII. 
THE  IMPENDING  DOOM, 114 


VIII  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    IX. 
THE  MARRIAGE  AND  ITS  RESULTS, 120 

CHAPTER    X. 
NEWS  FROM  HOME, 127 

CHAPTER    XI. 
AN  OLD  ENEMY : 132 

CHAPTER    XII. 

WELCOME  VISITORS  — MRS.  STEWART'S  STORY, ,139 

• 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
DEATH  OP  LITTLE  KATY, 153 

CHAPTER    X*1V. 
NEW  SCENES  AND  NEW  THOUGHTS, 161 

CHAPTER    XV. 
A  MEDLEY, 171 

CHAPTER    XVI. 
THE  BETROTHAL, 178 

CHAPTER    XVII. 
A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK.  —  EAVES-DROPPING 191 

CHAPTER    XVIII. 
ERNEST  BROWN, 203 

CHAPTER    XIX. 
MR.  DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL  LOVE, .224 


CONTENTS.  IX 

CHAPTER    XX. 
DEATH  or  MY  MOTHER, 233 

CHAPTER    XXI. 
THE  HEART  UNTEILED, 249 

CHAPTER    XXII. 
HOPES  NOT  REALIZED, 276 

CHAPTER    XXIII. 
TWICE  REJECTED, 290 

CHAPTER    XXIV. 
NEW  LEBANON.  —  THE  SHAKERS, 824 

CHAPTER    XXV. 
HELEN  MEANS  AND  MYSELF 853 

CHAPTER    XXVI. 
WONDERFUL  DISCOVERY, 374 

CHAPTER    XXVII. 
THE  WEBBER  FAMILY, 392 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 
MY  FATHER'S  DIARY, 401 

CHAPTER    XXIX. 
OLD  ACQUAINTANCE,  ..." .  .  417 

CHAPTER    XXX. 
CONCLUSION, 426 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE   RESCUE. 

AT  half  past  three,  p.  M.5  the  School  Teacher  informed 
me  that  I  was  at  liberty  to  return  home,  as  my  mother  had 
sent  a  request  that  I  might  be  dismissed  at  that  time.  I 
knew  that  two  of  my  cousins  were  expected  at  our  house 
that  afternoon,  and  surmised  that  was  the  reason  why  my 
presence  was  desired. 

The  weather  was  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  all  nature 
looked  so  inviting  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
hasten  home,  even  though  my  cousins  were  waiting  for  me. 
From  my  early  childhood,  I  have  felt  such  an  absorbing 
love  for  those  beautiful  creations  which  are  so  manifestly 
God's,  that  at  times  it  has  been  beyond  the  power  of  man, 
or  the  cares  and  conflicts  of  the  world,  to  draw  me  from 
their  communion,  or  break  the  spell  which  held  me  so 
lovingly  in  their  soul-purifying  embrace. 

I  walked  along,  very  leisurely,  frequently  stopping  to 
examine  the  wings  of  a  beautiful  butterfly,  or  cull  a  sweet 


26  THE   RESCUE. 

flower  growing  by  the  wayside.  And  when  I  came  to  a 
dark,  swiftly-running  stream,  I  looked  into  a  deep  hole, 
and  saw  beautiful  fish,  with  tints  bright  as  gold.  How 
they  darted  when  they  saw  me.  so  quickly  that  those  bright 
spots  seemed  to  emit  a  stream  of  light ! 

My  age  was  then  fifteen,  and  it  was  not  often  that  I 
enjoyed  the  luxury  of  walking  home  alone ;  and  when  I 
did,  I  improved  the  time  well.  I  examined  everything 
that  pleased  me,  and  went  through  a  course  of  reasoning, 
in  my  own  mind,  in  relation  to  them.  I  queried  if  the 
butterfly  was  not  made  to  teach  man  of  a  higher  and  bet 
ter  life  than  this.  The  worm  that  crawls  upon  the  earth, 
I  thought,  might  represent  man  in  his  present  state  ;  the 
butterfly  that  floats  on  zephyrs  with  golden  wings,  his  im 
mortal  and  glorious  state.  The  worm  weaves  its  own 
•winding-sheet,  and,  in  due  time,  the  cerements  are  thrown 
off  or  burst  asunder,  but  the  worm  is  not  there.  A  bright 
and  beautiful  creature  springs  forth,  sailing  away  as  on 
the  wings  of  light.  Now,  its  sphere  may  be  termed  spir 
itual,  for  it  is  a  renewed  and  higher  state.  It  no  longer 
grovels  in  the  dust,  but  soars  in  the  air  like  a  bird,  visit 
ing,  at  its  will,  green  fields  and  delightful  gardens,  and 
•when  weary,  finding  a  fitting  resting-place  in  the  soft 
bosom  of  a  flower, 

Man's  state,  in  some  respects,  is  not  dissimilar;  too 
often  vicious  and  degraded,  he  plods  on  his  way,  burdened 
•with  sin  and  disease,  so  that  he  despises  himself  when- 


THE   RESCUE.  27 

ever  he  looks  within,  and  sees  the  dark  spots  upon  his  own 
soul.  But  the  time  comes  when  he  goes  through  a  change 
analogous  to  that  of  the  worm.  The  body  is  cast  off,  and 
the  inner  life,  the  spirit,  comes  forth,  clothed  with  glory 
and  beauty,  and,  like  the  butterfly  that  shakes  its  bright 
wings  close  to  the  crawling  worm,  unperceived  by  it,  so 
the  spirits  of  the  departed  are  ever  near  us,  though  we 
perceive  them  not.  Floating  on  wings  of  ethereal  bright-^ 
ness,  they  comfort  with  happy  thoughts  and  bless  with 
hopeful  aspirations  those  they  love. 

While  such  reflections  were  passing  through  my  mind, 
I  thought  of  my  father,  who  had  been  dead  six  years,  and 
of  my  little  brother,  the  youngest  of  the  family,  who  had 
died  two  years  after.  I  wondered  if  they  were  as  much 
exalted  above  their  former  sphere  as  the  butterfly,  and 
whether  they  were  not  hovering  near  me,  their  wings  flash 
ing  in  golden  light !  "When  a  soft  breath  of  air  fanned 
my  hot  cheeks,  I  half  fancied  that  it  was  caused  by  the 
sweep  of  their  beautiful  wings.  The  fancy  did  not  startle 
me  in  the  least ;  but  I  wished  they  might  be  ever  near,  to 
watch  over,  bless  and  guard  me. 

I  do  not  believe  that  the  idea  of  spirits  returning  to 
earth,  or  hovering  ever  near  the  creatures  of  their  love, 
is  naturally  frightful  to  children ;  but  it  is  made  so  by  fear 
ful  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  some  with  skeleton  heads, 
and  others  with  the  red  blood  gushing  from  ghastly  wounds. 
These  horrid  creatures  ever  come  on  dark,  dreary  nights, 


28  THE   RESCUE. 

on  errands  of  revenge  and  mischief.  They  are  represented 
as  something  to  be  dreaded,  being  the  emissaries  of  hell ! 
I  know  not  why  we  should  so  much  fear  the  departed. 
Are  they  not  better  and  holier  than  earth's  children? 
The  Bible  tells  us  that  they  manifested  themselves  in  olden 
times,  but  ever  for  a  good  purpose.  Should  they  visit  us 
now,  they  would  be  messengers  of  truth  and  love,  seeking 
the  salvation  and  happiness  of  friends  dear  and  cherished. 
Welcome,  then,  to  spirit  messengers,  if  the  good  God  sees 
fit  to  send  them  to  us  ! 

I  had  accomplished  but  a  part  of  my  walk  home,  when 
I  heard  the  cry  of  a  child,  which  seemed  like  the  voice 
of  a  young  girl,  in  distress.  It  came  from  a  field  near 
by.  I  quickly  mounted  the  wall,  and  saw  a  boy,  some 
two  years  my  senior,  holding  in  his  arms  a  little  girl,  who 
was,  struggling  for  release.  •  He  covered  her  mouth  with 
one  of  his  hands  to  stop  her'  screams.  I  made  all  haste 
to  learn  the  cause  of  these  proceedings.  When  he  saw 
me,  he  quickly  let  her  go.  I  perceived  that  she  was 
greatly  frightened,  for  she  trembled  violently. 

"  What  does  this  mean?  "  I  inquired. 

"None  of  your  business,  sir." 

"Then  I  will  make  it  my  business,"  I  answered,  some 
what  sharply. 

"  You  will,  hey  ?  Start  yourself  sir  !  —  make  tracks, 
or  I  will  break  every bone  in  your  body !  " 


THE   RESCUE.  29 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry  !  I  have  but  just  come,  and 
shall  not  leave  till  I  please." 

"  Yes,  you  will,  or  get  an  almighty  thrashing, —  one  of 
the  six!" 

"  I  care  but  little  for  your  threats ;  so  do  not  think  to 
frighten  me,  sir." 

"  Well,  don't  meddle  with  my  affairs,  and  there  will  be 
no  trouble.  Go  about  your  business  !  " 

"  And  leave  this  poor  thing  in  your  hands  1  " 

11  If  you  please,  sir.  An't  she  a  beauty  ?  I  'in  in  love 
with  her.  Just  see  how  clean  and  nice  she  is  !  " 

I  looked  at  her,  and  saw  that  she  was  dirty  and  ragged, 
—  fearfully  so.  "  Who  is  she '? "  I  inquired. 

"  She  is  Deacon  Webber's  drudge.  The  old  Pharisee 
has  given  her  his  robe  of  righteousness  to  clothe  her  with." 

"  But  why  do  you  abuse  her, —  why  detain  her  against 
her  will?" 

"  That  is  my  business,  and  don't  you  interfere  !  If  you 
do,  I  '11  thrash  you  till  you  can't  stand."  The  sweet  blue 
eyes  of  the  poor  child  were  now  fixed  upon  me,  implor 
ing  rny  assistance. 

_"  Don't  you  meddle  with  her  again  !  "  I  said,  giving 
him  a  look  of  defiance. 

"  I  was  always  famous  for  obeying  my  superiors,"  he 
replied,  contemptuously,  at  the  same  time  taking  hold  of 
her  hands,  and  pulling  her  along  in  the  direction  of  the 
woods. 


30  THE   RESCUE. 

"  Let  her  go,"  said  I,  "  or,  by  heaven,  I  '11  make  you 
sorry ! " 

"  What  a  brave  little  man  !  Talk  away,  but  this  beauty 
must  go  with  me.  Come  along,  Sukey ;  I  will  not  hurt 
you."  Singing,  "  Come,  Sukey,  you  must  go  with  me." 

My  blood  boiled  now,  and,  leaping  upon  him,  I  caught 
him  by  the  hair  of  his  head,  and  laid  him  upon  his  back. 
He  sprung  up  in  a  moment,  and,  with  a  well-directed  blow, 
knocked  me  down  and  jumped  upon  me,  beating  me  in  the 
face  until  I  was  covered  with  blood.  I  fought  with  all 
the  strength  I  had ;  but  he  was  too  much  for  me.  lie 
might  have  killed  me  on  the  spot,  if  the  girl  had  not 
picked  up  a  stone  and  given  him  a  blow  upon  the  head, 
•which  made  him  roar  with  pain.  Another  blow  from  the 
same  weapon,  in  concert  with  a  well-directed  blow  from 
my  fist,  laid  him  senseless.  Taking  her  hand  in  one  of 
mine,  and  her  basket  of  dandelions  in  the  other,  I  led  her 
from  the  spot. 

On  our  way  home,  I  learned  that  the  name  of  the  one 
I  had  rescued  was  Helen  Means.  It  was  true,  as  that 
young  rascal  had  said,  she  lived  with  Deacon  Webber. 
Good  Heavens !  how  my  heart  swelled  within  me  as  I 
looked  at  her  clothes,  if  such  they  might  be  called,  more 
attentively.  I  had  never  seen  a  child  clad  so  meanly.  A 
mere  batch  of  dirty  rags  hung  upon  her  fragile  form,  and 
upon  her  head  was  an  old  straw  bonnet,  full  of  holes, 


THE    RESCUE.  31 

through  which  peeped  her  auburn  hair,  beautiful  and 
glossy,  even  though  no  care  was  taken  of  it. 

Had  I  lived  in  a  city,  I  might  have  seen  children  clad 
even  more  meanly,  if  it  were  possible,  than  Helen  Means; 
but  then  I  had  never  visited  the  city.  In  our  beautiful 
country  town  there  were  but  few  poor  people.  I  have 
since  seen  enough  to  make  my  heart  sick,  and  to  convince 
me  that  there  must  be  something  radically  wrong  in  society. 
What  more  sorrowful  sight  than  to  see  little  children,  all 
ragged  and  filthy,  with  faces  looking  old  and  sad,  search 
ing  the  gutters  for  orange-peel  and  apples  half  decayed, 
eating  them  when  found  with  a  ravenous  appetite?  I 
can  conceive  of  a  state  of  society  so  true  and  divine  that 
such  things  could  not  be ;  where  children  would  be  ever 
cared  for,  fed,  clothed  and  educated,  even  if  their  parents 
should  forsake  them  entirely.  A  state  of  society  where 
there  should  be  "Freedom,  Equality,  and  Fraternity;" 
where  the  good,  the  welfare  of  one  should  be  the  welfare 
of  all,  and  where  one  could  not  be  left  to  suffer  without 
causing  all  the  rest  to  suffer  with  it. 

In  my  holiest  moments,  I  look  through  the  dim  vista 
before  me,  and  behold  harmonial  unions  springing  up  all 
over  the  world;  from  year  to  year  the  work  goes  on, 
until  all  men  are  gathered  into  the  great  fold  of  love  and 
truth,  dwelling  together  in  peace,  a  divine  order  of 
society,  where  antagonisms,  and  wrongs,  and  slaveries, 
can  never  enter.  The  reader  may  smile  at  this,  and  per- 


32  THE    RESCUE. 

chance  silence  the  author  by  merely  whispering  the  word 
Utopia. 

As  I  looked  at  this  poor  girl,  I  thought  to  myself,  "  Can 
it  be  possible  she  lives  with  a  pious  deacon,  one  who  is  a 
burning  and  shining  light  in  the  church  ?  No  one 
exhorts  the  people  to  repent  more  constantly  than  he; 
no  one  warns  them  more  frequently  —  not  even  the 
minister  —  of  the  danger  to  which  the  sinner  is  exposed, 
—  the  awful  danger  of  unrepented  wrong."  With  these 
reflections,  I  thought  religion  must  be  a  great  farce  or  a> 
tragedy,  and  perhaps  both.  How  often  had  my  mother 
spoken  of  the  pious  deacon,  as  worthy  of  all  imitation ! 
of  the  money  he  had  contributed  to  send  the  gospel  to 
the  heathen ;  and  how  he  prayed  twice  every  day  with  his 
family ;  while  he  was  a  terrible  enemy  of  all  evil-doers. 
He  was  truly  one  of  the  great  pillars  in  the  church.— 
at  least,  in  her  estimation.  I  asked  Helen  a  number  of 
questions,  which  she  answered  in  such  a  plain,  artless 
manner,  as  to  win  my  admiration,  as  repulsive  as  was  her 
appearance,  to  a  mind  closely  allied  to  the  bright  and 
beautiful. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  brook  and  wash  the  blood  off  your 
face,"  said  she,  as  we  left  our  fallen  foe.  "  I  fear  you 
are  very  much  hurt.  I  am  sorry  you  got  hurt  so  much 
on  my  account." 

"  I  am  not  sorry  in  the  least,"  I  replied,  "  as  I  was 
instrumental  in  delivering  you  from  the  hands  of  that 


THE    RESCUE.  .         83 

vile  boy.  But,  let  us  not  stop  at  this  brook,  for  he  may 
recover  and  attack  us  again." 

1 '  I  think  we  could  master  him,  if  he  should.  But 
there  is  another  brook  on  beyond,  and  you  can  wash  your 
face  there." 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  with  Deacon  Webber  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

"  Six  months,  next  Saturday." 

"  Where  did  you  live  before  ?  " 

"  At  home,  in  the  city  of  Boston." 

"  Do  you  like  to  live  with  Deacon  Webber  ?  " 

"  Should  you  think  so,  by  my  looks?"  she  said,  with 
a  sad  voice. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  hate  him,  and  all  the  family. 
I  would  not  stay  there  one  day,  if  I  were  you,  to  be  kept 
so  ragged  and  filthy." 

"  I  cannot  help  it.  I  have  nowhere  else  to  go ! 
Boston  is  fifty  miles  from  here,  and  my  parents  don't 
know  but  that  I  am  used  well !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  write  and  tell  them  ?  " 

"I  never  learned  to  write  much;  besides,  I  have  no 
pens,  ink  and  paper.  If  I  should  write,  my  parents  are 
so  poor  they  could  not  come  after  me." 

"  Poor  girl!  But  don't  you  despise  the  deacon,  and 
all  that  belongs  to  him?" 

"  I  do  sometimes,  for  I  cannot  help  it  when  he  beats 
me  so ;  and  then  I  think  it  may  be  wrong  to  hate  and 


34  THE    RESCUE. 

despise  anybody.  I  fear  I  have  hurt  that  boy  very  badly, 
but  I  could  not  help  it.  Had  we  not  better  return  and 
see  to  him  ?  I  am  afraid  he  will  die  !  " 

11  He  is  an  ugly  fellow,  and  I  have  not  the  courage  to 
go  near  him  again ;  —  he  might  kill  us  both.  There  he  is, 
coming  now ;  let  us  run.  Hark  !  he  is  threatening  ven 
geance." 

Just  then  a  large  team  came  in  sight,  and  we  felt  no 
longer  afraid.  When  our  enemy  saw  that  aid  was  near, 
he  hesitated  a  moment,  then  turned  and  fled  towards  the 
woods.  At  a  little  singing  brooklet  the  blood  was  soon 
washed  from  my  face  and  hands. 

"  You  are  hurt  badly,"  she  exclaimed, — "  very  badly. 
What -a  brute  that  boy  is !  I  believe  he  had  just  as  lief 
killed  you  as  not." 

"  Never  mind,  Helen,  I  shall  get  over  it;  though  my 
head  is  very  painful,  and  I  have  a  severe  pain  in  my  side, 
where  he  kicked  me."  * 

"  You  look  very  pale.  I  think  you  must  be  faint. 
Lie  down  upon  the  grass,  and  I  will  bathe  your  head  with 
water." 

I  was  very  faint  indeed,  and  so  I  laid  down  upon  the 
soft  grass,  while  she  brought  water  in  her  hands  and 
bathed  my  burning  temples.  I  was  delighted  with  the 
gentle  and  affectionate  manner  in  which  she  performed 
the  part  of  a  nurse,  and  felt  more  indignant  with  the 
•deacon,  who  treated  her  so  shamefully.  When  I  had 


THE    RESCUE.  85 

sufficiently  recovered,  we  resumed  our  walk  and  conversa 
tion. 

"  Did  you  say  that  the  deacon  is  in  the  .habit  of  beat 
ing  you?" 

"  Yes,  he  beats  me  every  day,  and  his  children  knock 
me  about  when  they  please." 

"  What  do  they  treat  you  so  for  ?  " 

"  They  accuse  me  of  lying,  and  say  that  I  am  a  thief. 
If  any  sugar,  pie  or  cake,  is  missing,  it  is  laid  to  me ;  and 
if  I  deny  it,  I  am  accused  of  falsehood.  I  have  never 
taken  anything  but  once,  and  then  I  was  so  hungry  that 
I  could  not  help  it.  I  took  a  quarter  of  a  pie,  and  ate  it ; 
and  I  believe  that  I  should  have  done  so,  if  I  had  known 
they  would  have  killed  me." 

"  What  miserable  wretches  they  are  !  -I  shall  never 
take  any  more  comfort  while  you  stay  there.  I  will 
write  and  inform  your  parents." 

"  It  will  do  no  good,  they  are  so  poor.  Father  is  in 
temperate,  and  does  nothing  for  the  family.  Mother 
provides  everything  by  taking  in  washing." 

"  How  many  brothers  and  sisters  have  you  ?  " 

11  Five.  All  younger  than  I  am,  but  one.  Caroline 
is  twelve,  and  two  years  older  than  I  am." 

"  Your  mother  ought  to  know  of  this  ;  it  is  a  burning 
shame.  Do  they  give  you  a  good  bed  to  sleep  on  ?  " 

"  They  let  me  have  a  pretty  good  one,  at  first,  but  now 


86  THE    RESCUE. 

I  sleep  on  some  rags  in  the  attic.     I  never  take  off  my 

clothes  when  I  lie  down." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     Do  you  ever  go  to  school  ?  " 

"  I  went  some  when  I  was  in  Boston,  but  now  I  do 

not  go  at  all.     Mr.  Webber  says  that  poor  children  do 

not  need  learning,  and  so  he  keeps  all  the  books  and 

papers  out  of  my  reach.     One  day  I  looked  into  a  book, 

and  he  punished  me  for  it    If  I  could  get  books,  I  would 

read,  if  he  did  beat  me." 

"  Don't  your  parents  wish  you  sent  to  school  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  the  deacon  promised  that  I  should  go  four 

months  every  year." 

"  How  long  are  you  to  stay  there  ?  " 

"  Until  I  am  eighteen,  if  I  live  so  long." 

"  You  will  not  stay  one  year,  if  I  can  prevent  it. 

Seven  long  years  to  be  abused  by  a  soulless  pack  of 

wretches !     No,  you  shall  be  removed  by  some  means. 

I  wish  my  father  was  alive ;  the  work  would  be  done 

quick,  and  ii  shall  be  done  now !  " 

11  0 !  if  you  can  help  me  get  away  from  them,  and 

find  me  a  good  place  to  live,  I  shall  be  so  grateful,  and 

I  know  God  will  bless  you." 

"  I  will  see  what  can  be  done.     Don't  despair,  and  all 

will  work  right.     You  must  not  tell  a  single  person  of 

our  intentions." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  you  can  get  me  away  ?  " 
"I  will,  if  I  live." 


THE    RESCUE.  87 

We  had  now  arrived  at  the  place  where  we  must  sepa 
rate.  I  stood  and  watched  her  until  I  saw  her  enter  the 
house  of  Deacon  Webber ;  I  then  walked  slowly  home. 
When  I  entered  the  door,  my  mother  met  me  in  the 
entry,  and  seeing  that  I  was  injured,  she  exclaimed, 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  Henri  ?  Fighting, 
wicked  boy  !  Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  what  Deacon 
Webber  said  to  the  children,  last  Sunday,  about  quarrel- 
ling?" 

11  Don't  say  anything  about  that  old  villain !  I  can't 
bear  the  sound  of  his  name  !  " 

She  seemed  astonished,  and  she  said,  "Why  do  you 
speak  so  of  Deacon  Webber  ?  What  can  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  meant  what  I  said,  mother.  He  is  the  greatest 
rascal  in  the  whole  town,  and  cruel  as  the  grave  !  " 

"I  am  astounded,  Henri,  to  hear  you,"  she  said. 
"Are  you  crazy?  Deacon  Webber  is  as  holy  as  the 
ministers  of  the  gospel !  " 

"  Then  the  ministers  ought  to  be  hanged  !  "  I  replied, 
quietly. 

"  What  vile  and  insolent  talk  !  So  young,  and  yet  so 
wicked  and  heaven-daring  ;  — how  like  his  father  !  " 

"-Do  not  speak  evil  of  my  father;  for  I  know  that  he 
was  a  good  man,  and  he  is  now  among  the  blest ;  and 
sometimes  I  fancy  that  his  beautiful  spirit,  with  white 
wings,  is  flitting  near  me."  We  had  now  entered  the  sit 
ting-room,  and  my  mother  had  taken  her  accustomed  seat. 
4 


38  THE    RESCUE. 

*'  For  mercy's  sake,  Henri,  do  not  speak  in  that  way  ! 
Your  father  cherished  a  fatal  error,  and  there  is  little 
hope  for  him,  for  he  held  on  to  it  unto  the  last.  You 
were  too  young  then  to  understand  the  fearful  nature  of 
such  things ;  but  you  are  old  enough  now.  Deacon  Web 
ber  has  often  alluded  to  your  father,  and  warned  others, 
lest  they  too  should  turn  their  eyes  from  the  light,  and 
imbibe  an  error  so  false  and  pernicious.  Have  you  never 
heard  him?" 

"No,  mother,  and  it  is  well  I  have  not;  for  I  would 
have  told  him  to  his  face  that  he  was  a  base  slanderer ; 
for  I  know  that  my  father  is  one  of  the  brightest  spirits 
that  ever  was  crowned  with  life  eternal." 

"  You  shall  not  talk  in  that  way,  Henri,  for  I  cannot 
hear  it;  'tis  too  awful." 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  the  truth,  for  it  will  not  harm 
you,  mother.  And  as  to  Deacon  "Webber,  I  despise  him, 
the  wretch  !  A  pretty  man  he  is  to  warn  others, —  he 
had  better  begin  at  home !  Look  at  Helen  Means,  his 
little  servant, —  treated  in  the  most  shameful  manner, 
clothed  in  rags  and  filth,  half  fed,  sleeping  in  the  attic 
alone  on  a  pile  of  dirty  rags ;  whipped  and  knocked  about 
every  day ;  never  allowed  to  read,  study  or  go  to  school !  " 

"Who  told  you  this?" 

"  She  told  me,  herself.  As  I  was  coming  from  school, 
I  heard  a  cry  of  distress.  "  I  hastened  to  learn  the  cause. 
It  proved  to  be  Helen  Means ;  and  a  great  boy  was 


THE    RESCUE.  39 

abusing  her,  and  he  seemed  to  think  that  he  had  a  perfect 
right  to,  a3  she  was  clothed  with  what  he  called  Deacon 
Webber's  righteousness." 

"  What  did  he  mean  by  talking  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  The  miserable  rags  which  he  gives  he/  to  wear,  in 
stead  of  decent  clothes.  I  suppose  you  understand  that  ?  " 

"  What  depravity  !  " 

"Never  mind  the  depravity,  but  hear  the  rest  of  my 
story.  The  boy  would  not  let  the  girl  alone,  and  I  fought 
with  him.  He  would  have  killed  me,  I  fear,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  her ;  for  she  hit  his  head  with  a  stone,  and  knocked 
him  senseless.  We  walked  home  together,  and  she  told 
me  how  the  deacon  and  the  whole  family  abused  her." 

"  A  nice  business  to  be  engaged  in,  truly  !  — two  boys 
and  a  girl  fighting  !.  Your  cousins  have  been  here  to  see 
you,  and  have  gone  home.  Deacon  Webber  came  to  me 
to  have  a  talk  about  that  child ;  and  after  he  had  told  me 
how  wicked  she  was,  I  advised  the  present  course  of  treat 
ment,  that  she  might  be  saved  as  by  fire."  . 

"  You  did,  mother?  "  I  said,  springing  out  of  my  chair. 
11  You  advised  such  treatment  as  she  receives  ?  Who 
ever  advises  or  justifies  such  treatment  as  that  is  an 
unfeeling  monster  !  " 

After  I  had  uttered  these  words,  I  thought  they  were 
rery  severe,  spoken  to  a  parent,  and  hardly  justifiable ; 
but  I  was  not  sorry,  for  I  felt  that  any  being  who  would 
counsel  such  wicked  abuse  of  a  little  child  was  a  wretch, 


40  THE    RESCUE. 

and  though  the  guilty  one  held  the  endearing  relation  of 
mother,  it  did  not  alter  the  fact.  Shame  upon  those  who 
neglect  and  trample  upon  poor  and  orphan  children  !  If 
those  who  have  the  care  of  them  abuse  and  neglect  them, 
others  will  ask  no  better  license. 

My  mother  was  very  much  startled  and  surprised  at 
my  language  and  manner.  She  gave  me  a  violent  push 
with  her  hand,  which  sent  me  to  the  floor,  and  strik 
ing  my  head,  the  blood  streamed  forth  anew.  I  was 
weak  from  the  loss  of  it,  or  I  should  not  have  fallen. 

"  I  will  teach  you,"  she  said,  "  to  talk  in  that  way  to 
your  mother  !  What  do  you  think  of  yourself,  you  wicked 
boy  ?  "  She  now  stopped  and  regarded  me  with  a  strange, 
unearthly  look,  as  I  stood  before  her,  tha  blood  running 
down  my  face. 

After  a  few  minutes  I  replied,  in  great  bitterness, 
"  You  call  me  wicked  ;  and  it  would  be  strange  if  I  were 
not,  when  my  own  mother  counsels  the  most  savage  abuse 
of  a  little  child." 

"  Keep  your  insolent  tongue  still,  or  I  will  chastise 
you  severely ! " 

"  I  care  not  if  you  do,  but  I  will  speak  !  I  will  write 
to  Helen  Means'  parents,  and  tell  them  how  Deacon 
Webber  abuses  her ;  and  I  will  tell  everybody  else  that 
you  advised  it." 

I  had  never  talked  in  this  manner  before,  and  I  could 
not  then,  if  I  had  not  been  in  the  highest  state  of  excite- 


THE    RESCUE.  41 

merit.  For  more  than  one  reason,  I  had  but  little  filial 
affection  for  mother ;  and  when  she  spoke  so  complimentary 
of  the  deacon,  and  so  unkindly  of  my  father,  and  then 
confessed  her  participation  in  the  wrongs  of  that  poor 
child,  my  whole  nature  was  aroused  with  indignation.  I 
was  faint  when  I  entered  the  house,  and  it  was  only  the 
intense  excitement  which  kept  me  up.  At  the  close  of 
my  last  speech  I  fainted,  and  knew  no  more  until  I  found 
myself  lying  in  my  own  bed. 
4* 


.. 

• 

CHAPTER    II. 

SICKNESS. —  OUR   FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

WHEN  I  opened  my  eyes,  my  sister  Jane  sat  near  me. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now,  Henri  ?  "  she  said. 

11  My  head  is  painful,  and  everything  seems  strange. 
How  came  I  here?" 

"  You  fainted,  and  Thomas  and  I  brought  you  here." 

"  Did  I  ?  0,  yes,  I  remember  that  I  was  faint,  and 
I  feel  weak  and  faint  now." 

"  You  will  soon  be  better,  I  hope ;  so  keep  very  quiet." 

It  was  soon  night,  and  I  tried  in  vain  to  compose 
myself  to  sleep.  Strange  feelings,  and  sensations  of  a 
frightful  character,  came  crowding  upon  me,  until  my 
poor  brain  was  half  crazed.  By  and  by,  whole  troops  of 
the  strangest  and  most  ghastly  looking  creatures  that  ever 
mortal  beheld  stood  all  around  my  bed  and  hovered  over 
me,  and  placed  their  sunken  faces  close  to  mine,  and 
looked  at  me  with  their  hollow  eyes.  At  first  I  saw 
them  when  I  became  drowsy  and  shut  my  eyes  ;  and  when 
I  resolved  that  I  would  keep  my  eyes  open,  they  soon 
marshalled  their  forces  as  before,  and  then  they  came  in 
such  numbers  that  I  wondered  how  so  many  could  get 


SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT.       43 

into  the  room,  and  why  tl^ey  should  go  through  such 
strange  and  antic  evolutions.  Sometimes  I  would  fall 
partly  asleep,  and  a  hideous  heing  would  come  close  to 
me,  and  I  would  awake  with  a  start ;  and  just  as  I  opened 
my  eyes,  this  hideous-looking  object  would  take  the  form 
and  face  of  the  boy  from  whom  I  rescued  Helen,  and, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  mine,  he  would  move  swiftly 
backward,  until  he  receded  from  my  sight.  Again,  the 
object  of  terror  resembled  Deacon  Webber,  and  at  the 
same  time  it  resembled  my  mother ;  and  the  pale  face  of 
Helen  Means  was  looking  tearfully  into  mine.  At  times 
I  screamed  out  in  the  agony  of  fear  and  terror,  and  the 
creatures  would  vanish  away,  but  only  to  return  in  greater 
numbers  and  more  horrible  shapes.  At  last  I  lost  all 
consciousness,  and  when  I  regained  it  the  pain  in  my 
head  was  mostly  gone,  the  strange  sensations  had  taken 
their  departure,  and  with  them  the  ghastly  crowd.  I 
perceived  that  it  was  night,  for  a  light  was  burning  in 
my  room.  I  was  alone,  but  in  a  moment  Jane  came  in, 
and  I  thought  she  had  watched  with  me,  and  that  it  must 
be  near  morning. 

When  I  attempted  to  move,  I  found  that  I  was  almost 
entirely  helpless. 

u  What  time  is  it  ?  "  I  inquired,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"  Half-past  ten,"  she  answered. 

"  So  early  !    Why,  I  thought  it  almost  morning." 

"Do  you  feel  better  now?" 


44      SICKNESS. —  OUK    FAMILY.  —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

"Yes,  only  I  am  so  weak.^  What  makes  me  so  weak?" 

"  You  have  been  very  sick." 

"  I  know  it,  but  how  could  I  get  so  helpless  in  a  few 
hours  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  poor  child  !  you  have  been  sick  three 
weeks." 

"  Three  weeks  !  " 

"  Yes ;  and  very  sick,  too 

<{  How  strange  !  " 

"  You  have  not  had  your  senses  since  the  evening  you 
were  taken  sick,  and  we  were  fearful  you  would  never 
have  them  again.  But  you  must  not  talk  more  now. 
Here  is  some  medicine  which  the  doctor  left  for  you  to 
take  as  soon  as  you  regained  your  senses  ;  and  he  charg 
ed  me  to  be  sure  and  administer  it.  There,  go  to  sleep 
now,  and  to-morrow  you  will  be  able  to  talk  longer,  I 
hope." 

I  soon  fell  into  a  refreshing  slumber,  and  I  was  not  again 
conscious  until  morning,  though  I  was  told  that  I  took 
medicine,  talked,  and  opened  my  eyes  two  or  three  times. 
During  the  day  I  grew  better  and  stronger,  and  the  events 
which  transpired  on  the  day  I  Avas  taken  ill  came  back  to 
me,  causing  very  sad  feelings.  What  would  poor  Helen 
think  —  that  I  had  forgotten  the  forsaken  child  'I  I  did 
not  mean  that  she  should  have  staid  there  another  week. 
But  sickness  had  defeated  my  hastily  formed  plans. 

During  the  weeks  that  I  was  confined  to  the  house, 


SICKNESS. —  OUR    FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT.      45 

after  I  began  to  grow  better,  my  mother  visited  me  fre 
quently  ;  but  we  were  both  cold  and  distant,  and  I  was 
always  glad  when  she  took  her  departure,  for  I  kept 
thinking  of  Helen.  I  prayed  for  strength  ;  for  I  wanted 
to  take  her  out  of  the  hands  of  Deacon  Webber. 

How  ardently  I  longed  to  see  her  once  more,  and  tell 
her  that  I  had  not  forgotten  my  promise,  and  as  soon  as  I 
was  well  I  would  have  her  removed  to  a  good  home,  where 
she  should  always  be  very  happy,  and  where  I  would 
come  to  see  her  sometimes,  and  ask  her  how  she  liked, 
and  if  she  was  contented,  and  whether  she  was  not  very 
glad  that  she  had  escaped  from  Deacon  Webber  so  nicely, 
to  live  in  such  a  pleasant,  quiet  home.  All  this,  and 
much  more,  I  thought  over  a  thousand  times,  during  those 
helpless  days.  A  number  of  fine  things  I  would  say  to 
her,  to  cheer  her  up  and  make  her  smile  with  bright 
hope ;  —  very  wise  things,  no  doubt,  but,  alas  !  like  the 
beautifully  formed  speeches  of  a  lover,  they  were  never 
spoken.  In  three  weeks  from  the  time  I  regained  my 
senses,  I  was  able  to  leave  my  room,  and  soon  after  I 
was  gratified  with  an  interview  with  Helen. 

One  delightful  morning  I  walked  in  the  direction  of 
the  forage-ground  owned  by  Deacon  Webber,  as  I  had 
learned  that  Helen  drove  the  cattle  to  pasture  every 
morning.  I  hoped  that  I  might  be  so  fortunate  as  to 
meet  her  on  the  way,  that  we  might  form  a  plan  for  her 


46      SICKNESS. —  OUR    FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

• 

escape.  I  was  not  disappointed,  for  I  soon  saw  her  com 
ing  towards  me. 

When  we  met,  I  took  her  hand,  and  asked  if  she  was 
well.  What  a  look  of  sorrow  and  grief  she  gave  me,  in 
reply !  There  was  no  necessity  for  her  to  speak, —  to  say 
to  me  that  the  greatest  indignities  and  wrongs  were  daily 
heaped  upon  her, —  for  I  could  read  in  her  face  a  world 
of  meaning.  Her  eyes  were  like  a  book  of  sorrows, — every 
page  blotted  with  tears !  I  saw  that  she  was  thinner 
and  paler,  and,  if  possible,  she  had  a  more  weary  and  for 
saken  look.  The  poor  girl  tried  to  speak;  but  could  not, 
but  commenced  crying  bitterly.  The  sight  of  her  and 
her  distress  made  me  wish  that  I  had  Deacon  Webber  in 
my  power.  I  just  then  thought  that  I  should  like  to  tor 
ture  him  until  I  wrung  agony  and  bitter  repentance  from 
his  hard  and  wicked  heart. 

"  You  look  wretched  and  sickly,"  I  remarked.  "Have 
you  been  sick?" 

Half  choking  with  grief,  she  answered,  "  I  am  sick  of 
such  a  weary,  cruel  life." 

"  Poor  child  !   Then  they  continue  their  savage  abuse?  " 

"  0,  yes,  and  worse  than  ever !  " 

11  Is  it  possible  ?     What  can  the  wretches  mean?  " 

"  I  know  not;  for  I  do  as  well  as  I  can.  I  would  work 
every  day,  and  never  complain,  if  they  would  only  leave 
off  whipping  and  starving  me.  The  deacon  learned  by 
some  means  that  I  had  told  you  how  badly  I  was  treated. 


SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT.      47 

He  was  awful  angry  when  he  came  home ;  and  he  dragged 
me  into  the  cellar,  and  stripped  off  my  clothes,  and  whipped 
me  until  I  could  not  stand." 

"  'I  will  teach  you,'  said  he,  '  to  go  tattling  and  lying 
to  bad  boys  !  I  understand  your  case,  and  know  how  to 
make  the  application;  and  I  think,  Miss,  that  I  shall 
effect  a  cure.  Say  another  word  about  me  or  your  treat 
ment,  and  I  will  whip  you  worse  next  time,  you  lying 
wench  !  Sneaking  round  after  bad  boys,  are  you  ? '  And 
then  he  struck  me  with  his  hand  on  the  side  of  my  head 
so  hard  that  I  was  almost  stunned.  ,  - 

"  When  he  had  done  whipping  me,  he  washed  off  the 
blood,  and  then  put  on  my  clothes  and  carried  me  into  the 
garret,  and  left  me  there  until  the  next  day,  before  I  had 
anything  to  eat.  0  !  how  I  suffered  that  night '  I 
prayed  to  God  that  I  might  die, —  that  he  would  take  me 
home  to  heaven,  that  I  might  be  delivered  from  that 
awful,  cruel  man.  As  we  were  going  up  stairs,  we  met 
Mrs.  Webber,  and  I  noticed  that  she  was  weeping,  but  I 
don't  know  what  for. 

"Since  my  severe  whipping,  the  deacon  tells  everybody 
who  comes  into  the  house  what  a  vile  creature  I  am.  If 
he  should  see  yoi*,  he  would  make  you  hate  me." 

"No!  no!  By  heaven,  he  would  not!"  I  said,  trem 
bling  with  excitement  and  indignation.  "Pardon  me, 
Helen,  for  I  have  been  the  indirect  cause  of  this  outrage. 


48       SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY.— DISAPPOINTMENT. 

. 

I  told  mother,  and  she  musir  have  informed  the  deacon, 
for  I  have  not  mentioned  it  to  any  one  else.  Shame  upon 
her!" 

"  What !  your  mother  !  But  do  not  speak  harshly  of 
her,  for  the  deacon  has  lied  to  her,  no  doubt,  and  made 
her  think  that  I  am  very  wicked.  What  makes  you  look 
so  pale  and  feeble  and  poor  ?  Have  you  been  sick  ?  " 

"Yes;  very  sick,  or  you  should  have  escaped  before 
this.  But  cheer  up,  Helen,  for  deliverance  shall  come." 

"  Do  you  think  so?" 

"  I  know  so  ;  and  it  will  come  soon,  too." 

"  I  believe  you;  so  I  will  try  and  be  patient  until  I  am 
free.  When  shall  I  see  you  again?  " 

"  In  a  few  days,  at  this  very  place.  But  we  must  not 
be  seen  together,  or  our  plans  will  be  defeated.  We  will 
part  now  ;  so  good-by,  Helen." 

"  Good-by,"  she  said;  and,  with  hope  beaming  on  her 
pale  face,  she  walked  hurriedly  away. 

The  reader  may  have  queried,  er^this,  why  there  should 
be  so  much  bitterness  between  my  mother  and  me.  The 
truth  is,  though  I  did  not  know  why  then,  I  had  never 
been  a  favorite  child  with  her ;  but  I  knew  that  I  was 
dearly  loved  by  my  father.  The  words  of  a  modern  song, 
although  they  place  the  mother  in  a  somewhat  unnatural 
position,  yet  they  are  true  of  some  mothers ;  but  I  am 
happy  to  say  they  are  the  exceptions.  I  know  they  were 
true  of  mine. 


SICKNESS. —  OVR » FAMILY.- —  DISAPPOINTMENT.       49 


**  I  never  was 

My  mother  never  smiled 

On  me  with  half  the  tenderness 

That  blessed  her  fairer  child." 

"Can  a  mother  forget  her  sucking  child?  Yea3  she 
may  forget."  More  than  once  did  I,  in  my  younger 
days,  read  Byron's  "Deformed  Trans  funned,"  and  fancy 
that  my  case  was  in  some  respects  like  his ;  and  I  wished 
for  that  wonderful  poet's  genius,  that  I  might  paint  a 
picture  more  strange  and  startling  than  his. 

It  is  true,  perchance,  that  it  was  my  own  fault,  in  a 
measure,  that  I  was  not  more  beloved  by  my  mother  and 
brothers  and  sisters ;  for,  with  the  exception  of  little  Her 
bert,  to  whom  I  alluded  in  the  first  chapter,  there  was 
in  my  early  days  but  little  love  for  me.  Herbert's  love 
for  father  and  me  was  most  intense.  I  well  knew  that  he 
loved  his  mother,  and  all  his  brothers  and  sisters  ;  but  it 
was  with  an  affection  lessWleep  and  absorbing ;  and  after 
his  death  I  was  deeply  afflicted,  for  I  felt  so  lonely.  My 
dearest  treasures  were  in  the  grave, —  my  father  and  dar 
ling  Herbert.  The  passionate,  headstrong  boy  often  bent 
over  their  graves,  and  gave  vent  to  his  agony  in  burning 
tears. 

At  the  time  my  story  commences,  I  had  two  brothers 

and  three  sisters, —  Thomas,   Jane,   Lizzy,  George  and 

Charlotte.     Thomas,  Jane  and  Lizzy,  were  older  than  I; 

and  George  and  Charlotte,  younger.     A  woman  by  tb' 

5 


50      SICKNESS. —  OUR   FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

name  of  Stewart  lived  with  us,  and  had  done  so  for  a 
number  of  years.  She  was  a  widow,  and,  though  one  of 
the  excellent  of  the  earth,  at  times  very  sad,  when  she 
would  talk  of  her  husband,  and  her  darling  lost  Lelia, 
her  only  child,  and,  as  she  frequently  said,  her  angel  child, 
for  she  was  in  heaven,  with  her  dear  father. 

My  father  was  one  of  the  best  men  who  ever  lived ; 
so  it  seems  to  me,  from  what  I  recollect  of  him.  0  !  how 
much  he  loved  me !  But,  although  so  good,  I  was 
well  aware,  after  I  had  come  to  years  of  discretion,  that 
mother  had  but  little  affection  for  him.  He  left  us  in  good 
circumstances ;  for  he  owned  an  extensive,  well-cultivated 
farm,  and  had  some  ten  thousand  dollars  at  interest.  We 
chose  for  our  guardian  a  man  by  the  name  of  Edgar  ton, 
—  a  jolly,  good-hearted,  fat  old  farmer,  who  lived  near  by. 
His  early  education  had  been  somewhat  neglected,  but  we 
selected  him  because  we  knew  that  he  loved  justice  and 
peace.  The  buildings  on  the*farm,  at  this  time,  were 
mostly  new,  and  so  arranged  as  to  form  a  fine  country- 
seat.  The  house  was  elegant  for  the  country,  and  em 
bowered  with  trees.  The  school  which  we  attended  was 
about  a  mile  from  our  home,  and  the  scenery  by  way 
was  very  beautiful.  On  every  hand  were  highly  culti 
vated  farms,  fine  orchards  and  lovely  groves,  with  here 
and  there  a  babbling,  singing  brook.  Far  away  were  hills 
and  valleys  covered  with  trees,  which  looked  glorious  to 


SICKNESS.-—  OUR   FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT.      51 

me,  as  they  waved  their  proud   heads,  green  with   leaves 
and  golden  with  sunlight ! 

My  father  had  but  one  brother  living,  and  his  residence 
was  in  a  neighboring  town.  I  had  seen  him  enough 
to  know  that  he  .was  a  very  excellent  man ;  and,  as  I 
thought,  very  mueh  like*  my  father.  After  giving  the 
subject  due  consideration,  I  resolved  to  write  to  him,  and 
ask  his  aid ;  which,  I  felt,  would  be  cheerfully  given.  In 
accordance  with  this  resolution,  I  penned  him  the  follow 
ing  note : 

"  DEAR  UNCLE  :  I  want  your  counsel  and  assistance. 
"  A  poor  girl,  eleven  years  old,  is  living  with  a  most 
'•  unmerciful  tyrant.  She  is  starved,  beaten,  and  clothed 
"with  rags;  kept  from  school,  and  shut  out  from  every 
"  privilege.  My  heart  aches  for  her,  she  is  such  a  good 
"  child.  I  wish  you  would  come  and  carry  her  home. 
"  I  will  have  her  dressed  in  a  suit  of  my  cast-off  clothes, 
"  which  are  too  small  for  me.  Thus  dressed,  she  will 
"  pass  for  a  boy.  Appoint  your  time  and  place,  and  she 
"  shall  be  ready.  Yours,  &c., 

"  HENRI  EATON." 

In  three  days  I  received  the  following  letter  in  reply : 

"  MY  DEAR  NEPHEW  :  I  was  somewhat  surprised  at 
(<  the  contents  of  your  note,  but  am  highly  pleased  with 


52      SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

"  the  idea  of  rescuing  the  little  girl.  You  must  proceed 
"  very  cautiously,  or  it  will  prove  a  failure.  I  will  meet 
"  you  in  the  woods  to-morrow  evening,  this  side  of  the 
"  village,  near  the  Cold  Spring.  If  you  can  so  manage  as 
"  to  have  her  there,  dressed  like  a  boy,  all  will  be  well. 
"  Proceed  with  due  caution,  and*  tell  the  little  girl  not  to 
"  breathe  a  word  to  any  one. 

"  Thy  affectionate  uncle,' 

"  THOMAS  EATON." 

I  was  overjoyed  when  I  read  this  note.  The  next 
morning  I  saw  Helen  a  few  minutes,  and  told  her  our 
plans.  I  pointed  out  the  spot  where  she  would  find  the 
clothes,  and  directed  her,  after  she  had  put  them  on,  to 
conceal  herself  near  by  until  I  came  for  her.  With  a 
beating  heart  I  saw  her  pass  by,  when  nearly  sunset, 
going  in  the  direction  of  Deacon  Webber's  pasture.  I 
watched  her  until  she  went  to  the  gate  where  the  cattle 
were  let  in  and  out,  and  after  opening  it  she  passed  on 
toward  the  woods.  I  followed  her  soon  after,  and  found 
her  dressed  as  directed.  She  made  a  very  pretty  boyj 
looking  better  than  I  had  ever  seen  her  before.  We 
passed  through  the  woods,  then  across  a  large  field,  and 
came  to  the  Cold  Spring,  where  we  were  to  meet  my 
uncle.  We  waited  until  dark,  but  he  did  not  come. 

The  reader  will  surmise  what  my  feelings  were  when 
the  truth  forced  itself  upon  me  that,  from  some  cause,  my 


SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT.      53 

undo  was  prevented  from  fulfilling  his  promise.  What 
should  be  done  now  ?  As  to  Helen's  returning  to  Deacon 
Webber's,  that  was  not  to  be-  thought  of  for  a  moment ; 
for,  as  she  had  not  driven  up  the  cows  in  due  season, 
she  would  be  most  cruelly  whipped.  She  trembled  like 
a  leaf,  and  began  to  sob  as  though  her'  heart  would  break. 
A  few  moments  before  so  hopeful, —  now  how  changed  ! 

"  What  shall  I  do  now?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  cannot 
return  to  the  deacon's ;  he  would  kill  me.  I  would 
rather  die  here." 

"It  is  strange  that  uncle  does  not  come,"  said  I; 
"but  do  not  despair;  he  may  come  yet  —  it  is  not  late. 
Some  accident  may  have  detained  him.  We  will  wait 
a  while  longe;v/- 

We  sat  down  in  sadness,  scarcely  venturing  to  speak  a 
word  aloud,  and  anxiously  waited  his  coming,  but  waited 
in  vain.  We  then  went,  at  my  suggestion,  and  got  her 
old  clothes  and  carried  them  some  distance  into  the 
woods,  and  threw  them  into  a  hole,  which  was  made  when 
a  large  tree  was  overturned  by  the  wind,  and  covered 
them  up  with  pieces  of  wood  and  stumps,  and  whatever 
we  could  conveniently  lay  hold  of.  We  did  this  because 
I  suggested  that  she  might  have  to  stay  in  town  a  num 
ber  of  days ;  and,  if  her  clothes  were  found,  the  attention 
of  the  people  would  the  more  readily  be  turned  to  the 
strange  boy,  and  perchance  lead  to  detection.  After  we 
had  taken  this  precaution,  we  returned  to  the  Spring ;  but, 
5* 


54      SICKNESS. —  OUR   FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

as  we  found  no  one  there,  we  immediately  formed  our 
plans  for  the  night.  I  knew  that  I  must  go  home  with 
out  delay,  or  I  should  be  suspected  at  once.  But  Helen 
must  not  be  left  in  the  woods  alone.  After  much  per 
suasion,  she  consented  to  come  to  the  house  and  knock, 
and  request  a  night's  lodging,  which  she  would  most 
likely  obtain,  for  I  would  ask  Mrs.  Stewart  to  intercede 
for  her,  if  it  was  necessary. 

Avoiding  the  road  and  walking  fast,  we  soon  reached 
the  orchard  adjoining  the  buildings.  Helen  was  to 
wait  there  until  I  learned  that  it  would  be  safe  for  her  to 
come  to  the  house.  We  were  afraid  that  Deacon  Web 
ber  was  there,  or  had  been  there,  in  search  of  the  run 
away.  If  I  did  not  return  soon,  she  would  fcnow  that  the 
way  was  clear. 

Mrs.  Stewart  sat  in  the  kitchen,  sewing,  when  I  went 
in  ;  and  merely  remarked  that  she  missed  me  at  tea,  but, 
if  I  had  not  been  to  supper,  she  would  get  me  some. 

Nearly  an  hour  elapsed  before  I  heard  anything  of  the 
fugitive.  I  was  thankful  when  a  faint  rapping  was  heard 
at  the  door.  Mrs.  Stewart  arose  and  opened  it. 

"  Will  you  let  me  stay  here  to-night?  I  am  a  poor, 
little  boy,  with  no  home  to  go  to,"  said  a  soft,  trembling 
voice. 

Mrs.  Stewart  had  a  heart  brim-full  of  kindness,  and 
she  said,  "  Come  in,  dear,  and  I  will  see.  I  guess 


SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY.  —  DISAPPOINTMENT.     55 

we  can  keep  you,  my  little  "wanderer."  Helen  obeyed, 
looking  very  much  frightened. 

11  Don't  tremble,  poor  boy  !  Nobody  shall  hurt  you, 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart.  "  What  is  your  name?" 

"Edward  Bailey,"  was  the  answer, —  the  name  I  had 
suggested. 

"  Well,  Edward,  have  you  got  lost,  and  so  want  to 
stay  here  to-night  1 " 

"No,  ma'am;  I  have  no  home  anywhere." 

"  That  is  strange.     Are  you  telling  the  truth  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  But  how  does  it  happen  that  a  little  boy  like  you 
should  be  seeking  a  place  to  lodge,  at  this  time  ?  Have 
you  run  away?" 

"Yes,  ma'am:" 

"  What  did  you  run  away  for?  " 

"  Because  I  was  not  well  used." 

"I  should  judge  so,  by  your  appearance.  You  are 
pale  and  poor.  How  strange  that  people  will  abuse  such 
little  children !  How  old  are  you,  my  poor  little 
fellow?" 

"Eleven,  last  month." 

"You  do  not  look  to  be  more  than  eight.  You  are 
very  small  of  your  age.  In  what  part  of  the  country 
did  you  live,  and  what  was  your  master's  name  ?  " 

"I  don't  want  to  tell." 

"  Well,  no  matter.     You  are  afraid  that  I  should 


56    "SICKNESS. —  oun  FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

betray  you  ;  but  I  would  not,  for  the  world.  My  religion 
teaches  me  to  'hide  the  outcast,'  and  shelter  the  fugitive, 
whether  white  or  black.  Deacon  Webber  says  that  we 
cannot  fulfil  our  moral  and'  constitutional  obligations, 
unless  we  deliver  the  fugitive  to  his  master.  A  pretty 
Christian  he  is,  to  talk  in  that  way !  Simple  humanity 
teaches  a  holier  doctrine.  Man  is  greater  than  all  the 
constitutions  in  the  world ;  and,  when  he  is  wronged,  the 
true  Christian  will  help  him,  if  he  can.  Have  you  been 
to  supper,  Edward  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you;  but  I  do  not  wish  for  any  supper." 

"You  should  not  say  that  you  do  not  want  any  sup 
per  ;  for  you  do,  and  you  shall  have  a  good  warm  one," 
approaching  her,  and  taking  off  the  cap.  "You  look 
hungry  and  faint,  and  I  am  sure  you  are.  I  think  Henri 
has  not  had  anything  to  eat  to-night ;  and  so  you  shall 
sup  together." 

Helen  looked  up,  with  a  grateful  smile.  As  soon  as 
Mrs.  Stewart  caught  her  eyes,  she  gave  a  sudden  start, 
which  frightened  us  both  very  much  for  a  moment.  We 
were  fearful  that  she  had  seen  Helen,  and  now  recog 
nized  her.  But  we  soon  learned  that  there  was  no  cause 
for  alarm. 

"  Just  such  eyes  !  "  she  said,  fixing  a  searching  look 
upon  Helen. 

"  To  whom  do  you  refer  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  To  one  who  died  some  years  since.     This  boy  re- 


I 
SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT.      57 

minds  me  of  her  very  much.  He  has  eyes  of  the  same 
color  and  expression, —  only  they  are  sadder,  and  I  think 
his  hair  must  have  been  of  the  same  color  when  no 
older,"  smoothing  it  with  her  hand.  "  How  barbarously 
they  have  cut  it,  shearing  it  close  to  your  head  !  "  The 
deacon  had  cut  it  off,  as  a  punishment  for  the  information 
she  had  given  me.  The  simple  truth,  to  him,  was  wicked 

tying- 

"If  you  were  my  boy,"  Mrs.  Stewart  continued,  "I 
should  let  it  grow  long,  and  hang  in  beautiful  ringlets  all 
'round  your  neck." 

Supper  was  soon  ready,  and  I  relished  it  better  than  I 
had  a  meal  of  victuals  since  my  sickness.  I  was  so 
happy  in  seeing  Helen  partaking  of  good  substantial  food¥ 
of  which  there  was  an  abundance  before  her,  instead  of 
the  miserable  slops  which  the  deacon  gave  her,  that  it 
revived  my  appetite.  Mrs.  Stewart  said  that  the  bo/ 
might  stay  over  night,  although  Mrs.  Eaton  was  absent 
I  was  thankful  to  hear  that  mother  was  away.  "  Where 
is  she  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Gone  to  your  uncle's,  in ." 

I  was  surprised.  Here,  then,  was  the  secret  explained. 
I  felt  greatly  relieved. 

"  When  did  she  go  ?"  I  asked. 

"At  three  o'clock,  taking  your  brothers  and  sisters 
with  her.  They  are  to  stay  until  the  painting  is  done." 

"  I  feel  rather  slighted." 


58      SICKNESS. —  OUR  FAMILY. —  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

"  You  have  reason  to  feel  slighted,  Henri.  But  it  is 
all  for  the  best.  .  I  have  been  informed  that  you  talked 
very  saucy  to  your  mother,  previous  to  your  sickness, 
•which  she  has  never  forgiven.  She  thinks  you  are  a 
very  wicked  boy.  I  cannot  think  you  intentionally  bad, 
though  you  have  a  quick  temper.  Children  should  never 
be  saucy  to  their  parents." 

"I  had  good  cause  for  what  I  said  and  did  ;  but  let 
that  pass.  I  am  heartily  glad  that  she  saw  fit  to  leave 
me  at  home  ;  for  I  shall  be  happier  here.  At  some  future 
time  I  shall  pay  uncle  a  visit,  and  I  prefer  to  go  alone." 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE  DEACON  FOILED. 

ON  the  day  ensuing,  I  received  another  letter  from  my 
uncle,  which  ran  as  follows : 

cc  MY  DEAR  HENRI  :  I  hope  you  were  not  much  disap- 
"  pointed,  last  evening ;  for  you  must  have  known  that  it 
"  would  be  impracticable  for  me  to  come  after  the  girl  while 
"  your  mother  was  here.  I  was  nearly  ready  to  start  when 
"  her  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door.  She  does  not  speak 
"  so  complimentary  of  you  as  I  could  wish.  I  know  not 
"  what  to  think.  She  says  that  you  are  ver^  saucy  and 
"  disobedient,  and  too  intimate  for  your  own  good  with-  a 
"  bad  child, —  a  girl  living  with  Deacon  Webber,  whom  the 
"  good  man  has  great  difficulty  in  managing  at  all.  The 
"  deacon  has  informed  her  that  the  girl  is  a  liar  and  thief, 
"  and,  although  only  eleven  years  old,  *  prone  to  evil  as  the 
"  sparks  fly  upward.'  I  hope,  Henri,  these  things  are  not 
"  so ;  for  I  have  always  loved  you,  you  seemed  so  much 
"  like  your  lamented  father.  I  hope  your  mother  is  mis- 
"  taken,  and,  I  would  fain  believe,  honestly  so.  She  may 


60  THE   DEACON   FOILED. 

"  have  too  much  faith  in  Deacon  Webber,  and  you  may 
"  have  said  what  a  child  should  not  say  to  a  parent. 
"  People  capable  of  cherishing  such  strong  resentment  as 
"  your  mother,  would  be  very  likely  to  magnify  faults,  and 
"  see  things  in  a  false  light.  Be  careful,  in  future,  Henri ; 
"  for  you  both  have  hot  blood. 

"  Your  mother  will  return  one  week  from  to-day,  and 
"  I  shall  go  with  her,  and  will  take  the  girl  home  with  me. 
"  if  you  wish.  But,  if  she  is  the  depraved  thing  your 
"mother  has  described,  I  cannot  keep  her,  unless  we  cun 
"  reform  her;  and  I  am  in  hopes  that  your  good  aunt  will 
"  be  able  to  do  so,  for  she  is  so  kind  that  her  influence 
"  with  the  depraved  is  very  great.  .  Write  immediately, 
"  Henri,  and  then  I  can  determine  what  to  do. 
"  Thy  affectionate  uncle, 

"  THOMAS  EATON." 

By  the  Sime  I  had  finished  this  letter,  my  heart  was 
very  full  of  bitterness.  "  Would  to  God,"  I  exclaimed, 
"that  I  had  a  mother  worthy  of  the  name  !  "  I  felt 
that  she  was  unworthy  of  love  or  respect. 

It  is  fearful  for  a  child  to  feel  thus  towards  a  parent ; 
but  I  could  not  help  it.  I  thought  that  she  was  wantonly 
trifling  with  the  character  of  her  own  child,  and  fearfully 
wronging  a  little,  helpless  girl,  who  had  already  suffered 
most  shameful  abuse.  When  I  read  the  letter  to  Helen, 
and  gave  loose  rein  to  some  of  my  bitter  thoughts,  she 


THE  DEACON  FOILED.  61 

chided  me,  in  her  childljjfe  way,  for  cherishing  such  feel 
ings  to  wauls  my  mother.  u  Well,  you  ought  to  hate 
her,"  I  said,  in  reply. 

"0,  no,  I  can  never  hate  your  mother  ! " 

u  You  never  can  !  But  you  ought  to  hate  and  des 
pise  any  being  who  causes  you  such  suffering.  Let  any 
one  treat  me  so,  and  I  should  hate  like  a  demon  !  " 

"I  would  rather  forgive." 

"  What !  forgive  those  who  abuse  you  so?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  strange  and  unnatural.  If  I  was  a  man,  I 
should  think  it  unmanly." 

"  Jesus  always  forgave  ;  —  was  he  unmanly  1 " 

"  I  suppose  not;  but  I  cannot  pardon  those  who  wan 
tonly  abuse  me,  and  I  don't  see  how  anybody  can.  But 
I  must  go  and  rejfly  to  my  dear,  kind  uncle."  I  went 
to  my  room  and  immediately  wrote  this  letter  : 

"  DEAR  UNCLE  :  I  was  shocked  when  I  read  the  con- 
"  tents  of  your  note.  I  tell  you  plainly  that  what  my 
'•'  mother  has  told  you  is  almost  entirely  false !  I  will  not 
"  say  that  I  have  not  been  saucy  to  mother  ;  but  then  I 
"  could  not  help  it,  and  I  don't  think  you  would  have 
"  blamed  me.  The  girl  whom  she  describes  I  suppose  to 
"be  Helen  Means,  the  one  I  want  you  to  take  home.  The 
"  poor  thing  has  received  such  foul  abuse  that  it  makes  my 
' '  blood  boil  as  I  write ;  and  yet  she  has  the  best,  the  kind- 
6 


62  THE  DEACON  FOILED. 

"  est,  the  most  forgiving  disposition  in  the  world.     Deacon 
"  Webber  is  a  detestable  hypocrite,  and  a  monger  ! 

"  I  was  sadly  disappointed,  last  night,  in  not  finding 
"  you  at  the  Cold  Spring.  I  knew  not  what  to  think. 
"My  mother  went  away  without  informing  me  that  she 
"  was  to  be  absent  for  any  length  of  time,  or  that  she 
"  was  to  visit  you. 

"  The  poor  child  was  in  the  greatest  distress  when  she 
"  was  obliged  to  give  up  all  hope  of  seeing  you  that  night. 
"  She  did  not  dare  to  return  to  Deacon  Webber's,  for  she 
"  knew  that  she  would  be  most  unmercifully  beaten.  She 
"  is  now  at  our  house,  and  I  have  persuaded  Mrs.  Stewart, 
"  who  is  a  kind,  good  body,  to  let  her  stay  until  mother 
li  returns.  She  wears  a  suit  of  my  clothes,  which  I  wore 
"  some  years  since;  and  they  fit  her  very  well.  The 
"  thought  never  occurred  to  us,  until  this  morning,  that  the 
11  clothes  might  be  known ;  but,  as  Mrs.  Stewart,  who  is 
"  near-sighted,  is  the  only  one  who  would  be  likely  to 
"  remember  them,  we  feel  less  anxious.  We  must  not  let 
u  mother  see  her ;  for  she  would  know  the  clothes,  at  once. 
"  Be  sure  and  return  with  mother,  and  Helen  Means  will 
"  be  ready  to  accompany  you  home.  We  will  meet  you 
"  at  the  Cold  Spring,  at  sunset.  Till  then,  adieu. 
"  Yours,  affectionately, 

"HENRI  EATON." 

The  five  succeeding   days  passed  very  pleasantly ; 


THE   DEACON   FOILED.  63 

Helen  and  I  were  constant  companions,  and  I  never  was 
happier.  Mrs.  Stewart  manifested  the  greatest  anxiety 
for  Helen's  welfare,  and  was  as  kind  to  her  as  though 
she  had  been  her  own  child.  On  the  sixth  day,  we  were 
in  a  field  near  the  road  for  the  first  time, 'having  hitherto 
avoided  the  streets,  and  every  place  where  she  would  be 
likely  to  be  seen  and  recognized. 

But  we  had  followed  a  large  red  butterfly,  without 
thinking  where  it  was  leading  us.  Just  as  we  were  about 
to  get  over  the  fence,  Deacon  Webber  came  along  in  his 
carriage.  When  he  saw  us,  he  stopped  his  horse.  He 
had  been  suspicious  of  me,  and  he  quickly  surmised  that 
the  seeming  boy  was  the  runaway  girl.  He  looked  at 
us  a  few  moments  ;  and  then,  addressing  me,  he  said, 

11  Whose  little  boy  is  that  with  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  know  his  name,  Deacon  ?  "  I  inquired, 
rather  maliciously. 

"  His  name,  or  his  father's  name, —  I  am  not  particu 
lar  which." 

"  Very  well,  Deacon,  I  am  not  disposed  to  tell  you 
either.  You  might  as  well  drive  along,"  was  my  very 
imprudent  answer. 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,  you  young  imp  of  Satan !  I  want 
to  know  who  that  boy  is ;  and,  what 's  more,  I  will 
know ! " 

"  We  are  neither  of  us  Satan's  imps,  so  we  do  not 
belong  to  Deacon  Webber ;  and  you  had  better  not  give 


64  THE    DEACON    FOILED. 

yourself  any  further  trouble  as  to  who  my  young  friend 
is;  for  you  cannot  know,  Deacon." 

"  What  is  your  name,  little  boy  ?  "  he  said,  coaxingly. 
She  stood  trembling  with  fear.  ""  I  thought  so,"  he  con 
tinued.  "I  must  come  and  be  introduced,  for  I  feel 
ui^lccountably  interested."  .*: 

As  he  leaped  from  his  wagon,  I  caught  up  a  stone ;  but 
Helen  fled  like  a  frightened  fawn.  The  deacon  ran  after 
her,  andj  as  I  saw  that  he  was  gaining  upon  her,  I  threw 
the  stone  at  his  hdrse,  which  started  him  off  at  full  speed. 
The  deacon  heard  the  noise  of  the  carriage,  and,  turning 
round,  bawled,  lustily,  "Stop  that  horse!  stop  that 
horse  !  "  As  he  had  a  heavy  bass  voice.  I  thought  that 
a  tenor  accompaniment  would  add  to  the  effect ;  so  I  joined 
in  singing  the  same  tune,  but  on  a  different  key,  with 
variations.  He  pursued  Helen  no  further,  but  went  after 
his  horse  with  all  the  power  of  locomotion  he  possessed, 
muttering  and  grumbling  that  he  would  have  her  yet, 
and  promising  to  bring  down  any  amount  of  judgments 
on  my  offendisg  head.  I  listened  to  his  threatenings  with 
the  most  intense  satisfaction,  and  was  wicked  enough  to 
hope  that  his  carriage  would  get  essentially  used  up,  and 
that  it  might  be  some  hours  before  he  would  overtake  his 
runaway  horse.  Watching  him  until  out  of  sight,  I 
went  in  search  of  Helen. 

I  expected  to  find  her  in  the  woods,  which  were  not 
far  off.  It  was  astonishing  how  she  ran.  Had  there 


THE   DEACON   FOILED.  65 

been  a  wild  beast  in  pursuit  of  her,  she  could  not  have 
fled  with  greater  speed.  Ah !  she  knew  but  too  well 
that  a  worse  than  wild  beast  was  on  l&r  track.  I  would 
rather  have  a  child  of  mine  given  over  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  a  hungry  wolf  than  to  put  her  into  such  hands 
as  Deacon  Webber's;  and  I  have  always  felt  that  to 
uphold  a  system  which  gives  such  wretches  the  entire 
control  of  thousands  of  helpless  children  was  not  only 
unchristian,  but  monstrous. 

I  was  disappointed  in  my  expectations  of  finding  Helen. 
I  searched  the  woods  until  dark,  in  vain.  I  shouted 
her  name  in  every  part  of  them,  but  only  the  echoes 
answered  me.  When  conscious  that  it  was  useless  to 
search  longer,  I  turned  my  steps  homeward.  As  I  entered 
the  house,  I  met  Mrs.  Stewart. 

"What  does  it  mean  ?"  she  inquired.  "Deacon  Web 
ber  has  been  here  to  see  your  mother ;  and  he  says 
that  you  have  enticed  away  his  little  servant-girl,  and 
dressed  her  like  a  boy !  Is  this  true,  Henri  ?  " 

"  True  as  the  gospel/''  I  replied.  "Edward  Bailey 
was  Helen  Means,  and  nobody  else,  and  Deacon  Webber's 
slave  !  " 

"  The  deacon's  slave  !     Did  he  abuse  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  did.  You  would  have  been  indignant,  if 
you  had  seen  those  soiled  rags  which  she  wore  day  and 
night.  He  gave  her  rags  to  wear,  and  rags  to  sleep  on, 
and  he  whipped  her  without  mercy  !  " 


66  THE    DEACON   FOILED. 

"  I  fear  what  you  say  is  all  too  true.  I  never  liked 
that  man.  I  am  afraid  that  he  will  get  her  into  his 
clutches  again.  Inhere  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  know  not.  But,  if  he  gets  her,  he  shall  not  keep 
her.  He  may  murder  her,  but  she  shall  never  stay  there 
alive." 

"  He  says  that  she  is  an  awful  wicked  child." 

"He  lies,  Mrs.  Stewart!  There  is  not  a  better 
child  in  the  wide  world.  Was  your  lost  one  a  sweet  and 
gentle  child  ?  So  is  Helen  Means.  She  forgives  injuries 
like  an  angel !  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  it.  But  where  can  she 
be,  poor  thing  1  0  !  an  awful  account  have  they  to 
render,  who  abuse  children.  A  thousand  prayers  a  day 
won't  save  them.  The  deacon  accused  me  of  being  in 
the  plot ;  and  when  I  denied  it,  he  very  coolly  told  me 
that  he  hoped  I  might  be  able  to  clear  myself.  How 
insulting,  after  I  had  denied  that  I  knew  anything  about 
the  matter !  " 

"  He  is  so  false  himself,  that  he  thinks  everybody  else 
the  same.  He  will  accuse  me,  I  doubt  not ;  and  I  shall 
be  proud  to  plead  guilty." 

"  You  must  be  careful,  Henri,  for  your  mother  and 
the  deacon  are  great  friends.  You  know  what  a  fearful 
temper  your  mother  has,  when  it  is  roused  !  Do  not,  I 
beseech  you,  stir  up  a  whirlwind  of  passion ;  for  God  only 
knows  where  it  would  end  !  " 


THE   DEACON   FOILED.  67 

cc  And  I  do  not  care  much.  I  have  but  little  anxiety 
for  myself,  but  for  that  poor  child  it  is  agony !  0  ! 
Mrs.  Stewart,  how  would  you  feel  if  she  were  your  own 
child,  but  eleven  years  old,  and  in  the  woods  alone  on  such 
a  dark  night  as  this  ?  What  must  be  her  feelings  now  ? 
Terribly  will  she  suffer  to-night ;  but  she  will  feel  safer 
in  the  woods  alone  than  she  would  in  the  hands  of  those 
pious  tigers.  I  wish  I  had  the  deacon  and  his  family  in 
my  power ;  —  I  'd  give  them  what  they  deserve  !  I  hate 
and  despise  them  all ! " 

"  Tut,  tut,  Henri !  Do  not  talk  so.  It  is  not  Chris 
tian  to  cherish  a  revengeful  spirit.  Let  us  hope  that  all 
will  yet  be  well.  It  seems  a  terrible  thing  for  a  little 
girl  to  be  in  the  woods  alone  at  night ;  but  God  will  pro 
tect  her,  Henri." 

"  Amen  !  "  I  responded.  "  A  blissful  thought  has 
just  come  into  my  mind ;  and  0 !  it  is  as  welcome  as 
the  balmy  breath  of  flowers." 

"What  is  it,  Henri?" 

"  It  is  believed  by  many  that  the  spirits  of  the  dead  — 
those  who  are  worthy  —  watch  over  and  guard  the  living. 
Perhaps  my  own  dear  father  will  be  her  guardian  angel 
to-night,  and  while  she  sleeps  drop  a  tear  of  sympathy 
upon  her  pale  cheeks." 

"  A  happy  thought,  truly,  Henri.  I  love  to  think  of 
the  spirits  of  the  departed  hovering  around  us.  The 


68  THE   DEACON  FOILED. 

blessed  God  sends  them,  to  cheer  and  comfort  the  chil 
dren  of  his  love." 

"  May  he  send  them  to  watch  over  poor  Helen,  to 
night." 

"  Amen  !  Amen  !  " 

It  was  late  when  I  retired  to  rest,  A  number  of 
times  I  went  out,  to  see  if  I  could  find  Helen.  Fre 
quently  I  fancied  that  I  heard  her  footsteps,  but  it  was 
ever  an  illusion.  At  twelve  o'clock  I  sought  my  bed, 
and  ere  many  moments  I  fell  asleep,  being  greatly 
fatigued.  I  had  not  yet  recovered  my  health,  and  could 
endure  but  little.  The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  when 
I  inform  him  that  I  dreamed  of  Helen. 

I  fancied  mys'elf  in  the  woods,  where  I  had  never  been 
before.  The  rain  was  pouring  down  in  torrents,  and  I 
•was  soon  drenched  to  my  skin. 

I  wandered  on  in  search  of  some  object,  but  it  puzzled 
me  exceedingly  to  make  out  what  it  was.  At  last  I 
stopped,  for  I  could  go  no  further.  Suddenly  a  being 
approached  me,  so  beautiful  that  I  was  entranced.  Its 
wings  were  whiter  than  snow,  and  softer  than  the  petals 
of  a  rose ;  and  its  eyes  were  gentle,  and  beaming  with  love. 
It  beckoned  me  to  follow.  I  obeyed,  and  was  led  to  the 
base  of  a  large  tree,  where  I  beheld  a  pale-faced  child, 
sleeping  as  quietly  as  an  infant  on  its  mother's  bosom. 

"  Dost  know  her  ?  "  said  the  spirit. 

u  It  is  Helen  Means  !  "  I  replied. 


THE   DEACON   FOILED.  69 

"Listen,"  said  the  spirit. 

She  changed  her  position  slightly,  murmured  Henri, 
and  smiled.  The  rain  was  beating  upon  her,  and  she 
was  very  wet,  all  but  her  face.  Her  head  being  sheltered 
by  a  large  limb  of  the  tree,  not  a  drop  had  fallen  upon  it. 
I  could  have  wept  to  see  her  thus;  but  the  spirit  said, 
"  Fear  not ;  I  will  guard  her/7 

At  that  moment  I  awoke,  and  I  was  somewhat  startled ; 
for  it  seemed  that  the  words  were  spoken  in  my  room. 
Had  some  one  been  there,  and  uttered  them,  that  very 
instant,  I  should  not  have  heard  their  enunciation  any 
more  distinctly.  I  listened  ;  —  the  rain  was  falling,  as 
though  the  flood-gates  of  heaven  were  opened.  "  Poor 
Helen  !  "  I  said  ;  "  you  have  need  of  guardian  spirits  at 
such  a  trying  time  as  this." 

It  was  some  time  before  I  again  fell  asleep,  and  then 
only  to  find  myself  in  the  same  woods,  and  to  pass 
through  the  same  scene.  Helen  looked  so  natural,  as 
she  lay  there,  with  the  rain  beating  upon  her,  that  it 
seemed  more  like  a  reality  than  a  dream.  The  third  time 
was  the  vision  repeated,  and  when  I  awoke  it  was  morn 
ing.  The  rain  was  still  pouring  down,  and  the  wind  wag 
sobbing  and  moaning  around  the  buildings,  and  shrieking 
in  the  trees  near  by,  and  then  went  sweeping  far  away, 
howling  dismally  when  it  reached  "the  woods.  I  shud 
dered  when  I  thought  that  mother  would  not  be  able  to 
return,  and,  if  I  should  find  Helen,  she  could  not  make 


70  THE   DEACON   FOILED. 

her  escape  that  day,  and  secure  a  sweet  resting-place  at 
my  uncle's,  which  she  so  much  needed. 

But  I  was  happily  disappointed.  At  eleven  o'clock 
the  clouds  broke  away,  and  the  sun  came  out  warm  and 
golden.  How  thankful  I  was  !  I  spent  the  day  in  search 
ing  for  Helen  ;  but  all  in  vain.  With  a  sad  heart,  I  met 
my  uncle  at  the  appointed  time  and  place,  alone.  When 
he  heard  my  story,  I  saw  the  large  tears  roll  down  his 
face.  I  could  not  weep,  for  my  eyes  were  dry  and 
burning. 

"  Let  us  hope  for  the  best,  Henri,"  said  my  uncle.  "  If 
you  find  her,  do  not  fail  to  let  me  know  it,  and  I  will 
come  for  her  without  delay.  I  now  regret  that  I  had 
not  met  you  at  this  spot  at  the  time  first  appointed." 

With  heavy  hearts  we  separated.  I  went  home,  and, 
without  seeing  my  mother,  brothers  or  sisters,  went  to 
bed,  but  not  to  rest.  A  few  snatches  of  sleep  were  all 
that  I  could  get  through  a  long  night.  The  thought  of 
the  lost  one  haunted  me,  and  I  courted  the  sleepy  god  in 
vain. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

• 

MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER. 

LIKE  the  preceding  day,  I  wandered  in  search  of  Hel 
en.  I  passed  through  one  piece  ou  woods  after  another, 
until  I  came  to  a  lot  of  wood-land,  some  three  miles  from 
home.  Here  the  scenery  seemed  natural,  as  if  I  had 
lately  been  there ;  and  yet  I  had  no  recollection  of  «ver 
being  there  before.  I  was  positive  that  this  was  the  first 
time.  Presently  I  came  in  sight  of  a  noble-looking  tree, 
unusually  large ;  and  then  I  remembered  my  dream.  The 
tree  was  the  same,  and  at  its  base  —  incredible  as  it  may 
seem  —  the  form  of  a  child  was  impressed  upon  the  earth, 
as  though  it  had  lain  there  for  hours.  The  spot  where  her 
head  had  rested  was  precisely  the  same ;  a  large  limb  of 
the  tree  was  directly  over  it.  I  was  now  satisfied  that  Helen 
had  slept  there  on  the  night  she  had  fled  from  her  enemy. 
She  might,  I  thought,  be  still  in  the  woods.  I  rambled 
through  every  part  of  them,  and  often  shouted  her  name  ; 
but,  like  the  preceding  day,  echoes  were  my  only  reply. 
When  nearly  sunset,  faint  and  weary,  I  returned  home. 

On  the  morning  following,  I  received  a  message  from 
my  mother,  commanding  my  immediate  presence  in  the 


72       MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER. 

sitting-room.  I  knew  what  I  might  expect,  but  I  did 
not  care  in  the  least.  Despair  had  nerved  me  for  any 
thing.  I  entered  the  room  without  flinching,  and  saw, 
sitting  upon  the  sofa,  my  mother  and  Deacon  Webber. 
Their  faces  darkened,  when  their  eyes  fell  upon  me,  like  a 
thunder-cloud ;  but  this  did  not  alarm  me*in'the  least.  I 
just  then  liked  it,  and  was  willing  that  the  lightning  and 
thunder  should  follow.  "  Take  a  seat,"  said  my  mother, 
without  altering  a  muscle  of  her  face.  I  mechanically 
obeyed,  and  sat  myself  down  in  front  of  my  accusers. 
They  looked  at  me  sternly,  but  without  producing  the- 
effect  they  intended.  Mother  trembled,  and  I  knew  the 
storm  was  coming. 

"  How  have  you  spent  your  time,  during  my  absence, 
Henri  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  In  doing  good,  I  hope,  mother,"  I  replied. 

"  Wicked  boy  !  Do  not  tell  me  so ;  for  I  know  better." 

"  If  you  knew  all  about  it,  why  did  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"  To  see  if  you  would  speak  the  truth." 

"  A  worthy  motive,  truly  ! " 

"  The  crimes  which  you  have  been  guilty  of,  during 
my  brief  absence,  are  startling,  and  almost  unaccountable, 
in  one  so  young  !  " 

"  That 's  news  to  me  !     Who  are  my  accusers  ?  " 

She  pointed  to  the  deacon.  .      A 

"  Very  well,"  I  said,  regarding  him  contemptuously  j 
1  go  on !  " 


MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER.       73 

"  He  has  informed  me  that  you  have  enticed  away  his 
little  servant-girl,  Helen  Means  !  " 

"  Is  that  the  biggest  crime  in  the  dark  catalogue,  I 
wonder?" 

"  What'have  you  to  say  to  this  charge?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,  in  a  few  words.  It  is  false !  — 
nothing  can  be  more  so." 

"  Be  careful  how  you  speak,  Henri  !  Don't  be  too 
hasty.  Do  you  charge  Deacon  Webber  with  falsehood? " 

"  It 's  a  matter  of  very  little  consequence  to  me." 

The  deaeon  arose,  in  a  passion. 

"  Boy  !  "  he  said,  "such  insults  cannot  be  allowed. 
Beware,  sir,  what  you  say,  or  you  may  be  guilty  of  still 
greater  crimes !  I  am  an  anointed  vessel  in  the  holy 
churcb, —  a  member  of  Christ's  glorious  body." 

"  I  was  not  awarevof  that  fact.  Do  you  really  believe 
that  you  are  a  member  of  Christ's  glorious  body,  an 
anointed  vessel  in  his  church  ?  " 

"  Blessed  be  his  holy  name,  I  do!  I  know,  for  I  have 
the  evidence  within  me." 

"I  hope  we  shall  see  the  fruits,  then." 

"  You  would,  if  you  were  not  so  blinded  by  sin  and 
wicked  works.  Since  I  became  a  member  of  that  mysti 
cal  body,  I  trust  that  I  have  let  my  light  shine  upon  a 
darkened  world.  When  you  speak  against  me,  you  speak 
against  one  of  the  elect,  and  you  do  it  at  your  peril." 
7 


74  MY  MOTHER  AND   DEACON  WEBBER. 

My  mother  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Those  filthy  rags,"  said  I,  "  worn  by  Helen  Means, 
are  an  evidence  of  your  holiness  and  purity,  I  suppose. " 

"  I  see  that  you  are  terribly  depraved,"  replied  the 
deacon ;  "  and  only  the  most  severe  chastisements  will 
save  you.  Helen  Means  is  a  vicious  child,  like  yourself. 
I  knew  that  a  solemn  responsibility  was  resting  upon  me, 
and  I  resolved  to  be  faithful.  I  did  not  mean  that  her 
blood  should  cling  to  the  skirts  of  my  garments.  I  had 
commenced  a  course  of  discipline  which  would,  I  doubt 
not,  if  you  had  not  thwarted  my  plans,  have  proved  effect 
ual.  I  gave  her  poor  clothes,  because  I  wished  to  teach 
her  humility.  I  let  her  go  filthy  and  ragged,  that  she 
might  learn  how  full  of  all  uncleanness  was  her  own 
heart,  and  how  it  was  torn  by  the  unresisted  temptations 
of  the  devil.  I  chastised  her  severely,  that  she  might 
think  of  the  fearful  chastisements  which  God  would 
inflict  upon  her,  if  she  did  not  repent  of  her  sins,—  her 
wicked  lying  and  stealing,  and  other  sinful  deeds.  I 
often  told  her  of  all  this  ;  and,  previous  to  her  acquaint 
ance  with  you,  the  remedies  were  working  admirably  for 
the  cleansing  and  purification  of  the  sin-sick  soul.  And 
now,  if  she  sinks  into  utter  ruin,  the  hideous  curse,  burn 
ing  and  blasting  the  soul,  will  fall  upon  you !  " 

This  sublime  bombast,  and  hypocritical  nonsense  and 
wickedness,  caused  my  mother  to  draw  a  long  breath, 
while  she  seemed  to  shake  as  though  cold  chills  were 


MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER.       75 

creeping  over  her.  I  was  tempted  to  ask  her  if  she  did 
not  think  she  was  going  into  an  ague-fit.  But,  knowing 
that  she  was  my  mother,  I  restrained  my  wicked  propen 
sity  for  somewhat  wicked  jokes. 

"You  can  now  see,  Heiiri,"  she  said,  "  how  fearfully 
wicked  you  have  been.  Repent,  before  it  is  too  late  ! 
Restore  that  sinful  child  to  the  arms  of  her  faithful 
guardian,  and  go  and  sin  no  more  !  " 

"  You  ask  of  me  an  impossibility,"  said  I,  with  a 
calmness  that  surprised  me.  "  If  it  were  in  my  power,  I 
would  not  do  it.  Bad  as  you  represent  me,  I  am  not 
capable  of  a  deed  so  monstrous.  Should  I  be  left  to  do 
so  wicked  a  thing,  I  should  never  have  the  courage  to 
ask  God  for  mercy  and  pardon."  Deacon  Webber  says 
that  Helen  Means  is  vicious,  like  myself.  She  is  not 
vicious  or  depraved,  whatever  I  may  be ;  though  she 
would,  have  been  made  so,  if  she  had  not  been  so  pure  and 
truthful.  Helen  is  an  angel, —  all  love,  truth  and  good 
ness.  It  is  a  shame  to  abuse  any  one  as  she  has  been 
abused.  Such  is  not  the  religion  of  the  New  Testa 
ment.  I  wish  that  some  in  your  church,  who  are  what 
they  profess  to  be,  followers  of  Jesus,  could  know  what 
I  know !  They  are  too  pure  to  ever  receive  the  bread 
and  wine  from  such  unholy  and  polluted  hands.  You 
seek  to  frighten  me  by  denunciations,  by  appealing  to 
my  fears ;  but  your  labor  is  vain  and  useless.  If  I  have 


76       MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER. 

done  anything  to  benefit  that  poor  child,  I  rejoice  at  it, 
and  I  know  that  God  will  bless  me." 

"  Shocking  blasphemy  !  "  exclaimed  the  deacon. 

"  I  am  astonished  !  "  said  my  mother. 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  a  boy,  fifteen  years  old,  talking 
in  that  manner  before  ?  The  devil  must  help  him,"  said 
the  deacon. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  I  replied.  "The  devil  never 
gets  divided  against  himself." 

{ { Hold  your  tongue,  Henri !  I  will  not  have  you  talk 
ing  so  saucy.  I  am  your  mother,  and  I  have  a  right  to 
command  you,  and  it  is  your  duty  to  obey." 

"  If  you  wish  me  to  hold  my  tongue,  you  should  not 
ask  me  questions,  and  -Deacon  Webber  should  leave  off 
making  false  charges." 

Here  my  mother  gave  me  a  severe  blow  on  the  side  of 
my  head. 

"  Well  done  !  "  said  the  deacon.  "  He  deserves 
harder  knocks  than  that,  to  make  him  know  his  place." 

"Blows  upon  my  head,  and  excitement,  caused  very 
severe  sickness,  not  long  since ;  and  the  same  agencies 
may  produce  the  same  effect  again,  and  death  may  be  the 
result,  and  that  would  be  murder." 

"  Then  obey  me  ! "  said  my  mother.  "  Do  not  speak 
again  without  my  permission." 

' '  You  are  my  mother,  I  well  know ;  but  when  you 
are  leagued  with  a  villain,  for  the  vilest  of  purposes,  and 


MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER.       77 

through  his  influence  abuse  your  own  child,  I  feel  it  no 
sin  to  disobey." 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  to  hold  your  tongue  ?" 

11  You  have,  mother ;  but,  though  you  kill  me,  in  such 
a  cause  as  this  I  will  speak.  You  may  attempt  to  cover 
up  the  most  cruel  wrongs  with  the  stolen  garb  of  piety ;  — 
it  will  not  do.  I  see  through  it  all,  and  know  what  your 
motives  are."  When  I  had  said  this,  I  started  to  leave 
the  room. 

"  Stay,"  said  my  mother,  "  and  hear  the  other  charges 
against  you.  You  are  accused,  in  conjunction  with  Mrs. 
Stewart,  of  enticing  away  Helen  Means,  in  clothing  her 
like  a  boy,  giving  her  shelter ;  and,  when  her  master  was 
about  to  regain  her,  you  frightened  his  horse,  causing  it 
to  run  away,  demolishing  his  carriage,  and  maiming  the 
beast  for  life.  Is  not  this  all  true  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  did  not  entice  Helen 
away.  She  needed  no  enticement.  The  most  wicked 
abuse  drove  her  away,  and  that  we  all  know.  Mrs.  Stew 
art  had  no  part  nor  lot  in  the  matter,  and  did  not  know 
of  it  until  informed  by  her  accuser.  I  shall  not  deny 
but  that  I  gave  Helen  clothes,  and  boy's  clothes  too; 
for  I  wished  her  to  escape,  if  possible.  As  to  the  last 
charge,  it  being  of  a  serious  nature,  I  shall  let  the  deacon 
prove  it,  if  he  can.  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  beast,  but  I 
do  not  pity  the  owner." 

"  You  have  said  enough,"  remarked  my  mother,  "and 
7* 


78      MY  MOTHER  AND  DEACON  WEBBER. 

you  ought  to  expect  a  punishment  in  accordance  "with 
your  transgressions." 

"I  should  like  that,  above  all  things,"  I  replied. 

"  There  is  but  one  way  for  you  to  escape,"  she  said. 
"  If  you  will  give  the  information  requisite  to  enable  the 
deacon  to  recover  the  child,  you  shall  be  pardoned." 

"  Is  that  all  I  am  required  to  do  ?  I  could  not  pos 
sibly  comply ;  for  either  of  you  know  where  she  is  as 
well  as  I  do.  She  may  be  dead,  and  she  may  not  be  ; 
but,  whether  living  or.  dead,  I  know  not  where  she  is. 
And,  if  I  did,  I  would  have  my  tongue  cut  out  of  my 
head  before  I  would  tell  you  !  " 

"It  is  well  for  you,"  she  said,  "  that  you  do  not  know; 
for  if  you  did,  and  refused  to  tell  us,  we  would  tie  you 
up  and  whip  you  until  you  revealed  the  truth." 

"And  you  should  beat  me  to  death,  and  be  no  wiser; 
for  I  would  die  before  I  would  tell  you." 

"  You  may  go  now,"  said  my  mother.  "  Your  offences 
are  of  such  an  extraordinary  nature  that  we  require  time 
to  select  suitable  punishments." 

I  bowed  very  low,  and  left  the  room,  well  satisfied  with 
the  part  I  had  acted,  only  regretting  that  I  had  confessed 
to  furnishing  Helen  with  boys'  clothes,  fearful  that  it 
might  be  the  means  of  her  recapture. 


CHAPTER    V. 

i 

SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS. 

THE  reader  will  say  that  such  scenes  between  mother 
and  child  are  deplorable.  I  will  not  deny  it.  But, 
constituted  as  I  was,  with  a  deadly  hatred  of  every  spe 
cies  of  injustice,  and  with  an  impetuous  disposition,  how 
could  I  do  otherwise  than  act  the  part  I  did  ?  I  do  not 
now  justify  all  I  said  to  my  mother ;  but  the  circumstances 
were  peculiar,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  said 
less,  if  my  life  had  paid  the  penalty  of  my  rashness.  I 
was  surprised  that  I  governed  myself  so  well. 

As  I  went  into  the  front  entry,  where  I  had  left  my 
cap,  I  saw  Mrs.  Stewart,  who  looked  pale  and  anxious. 
We  retired  to  the  kitchen,  where  I  gave  her  a  brief  history 
of  the  last  hour's  transactions. 

"  What  will  be  the  end  of  this  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  lay 
ing  her  hand  upon  my  forehead.  "  Your  head  is  as  hot 
as  fire.  You  must  go  and  lay  down,  and  I  will  bathe  it 
with  camphor." 

"  My  head  does  feel  strangely;  but  I  cannot  lie  down 
now.  I  must  have  one  more  search  for  the  lost  child." 


80  SEVERE  SICKNESS, —  GOOD   NEWS. 

The  most  of  the  day  I  spent  in  the  fields  and  woods,  but 
with  the  success  of  -other  days.  When  night  came,  I 
returned  home,  with  my  head  burning  and  painful.  A 
number  of  times  I  was  obliged  to  stop,  and  think  which 
way  I  must  go.  Sometimes  I  could  not  see,  for  there 
was  a  blur  before  my  eyes.  I  reached  home,  at  last,  and 
hastened  to  bed,  but  not  to  rest ;  for  I  passed  through 
scenes  more  distressing  than  those  of  my  previous  sick 
ness.  How  long  was  that  night !  It  seemed  to  me,  in 
my  lucid  moments,  that  morning  would  never  come  again. 
Sometimes  I  thought  I  must  be  with  the  damned,  where 
night  has  no  morning,  pain  no  cessation,  and  the  fire  that 
was  consuming  me  would  never  go  out.  0  !  how  ago 
nizing  were  my  shrieks,  which  awoke  me  from  my  dream 
of  horror !  Then  again  I  was  wandering  far,  far  away, 
in  swamps  and  dark  woods,  in  search  of  a  lost  child,  whom 
I  was  doomed  to  seek  after  until  found.  Now  I  sunk  into 
the  mire,  and  struggled  fearfully  to  get  out ;  then  I  tore 
my  clothes  and  flesh  with  thorns  and  briers,  or  in  the 
deep,  dark  woods  at  night,  where  the  wild  beasts  were 
prowling,  and  the  dismal  howl  of  hungry  wolves  made 
me  tremble  with  fear  and  horror :  and  in  a  large  tree  over 
my  head  a  tiger  was  about  to  spring  upon  me,  and  he 
showed  his  teeth  and  licked  his  chops,  and  glared  at  me 
with  his  great  eyes,  which  looked  like  balls  of  fire.  Just 
as  he  was  ready  to  leap  upon  his  prey,  I  sprang  from  the 
bed,  in  the  wildest  frenzy  of  alarm.  Mrs.  Stewart  and 


SEVERE  SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS.  81 

Jane  caught  hold  of  me ;  but  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  the 
tiger,  and  was  surprised  and  delighted  to  see  the  tree  upon 
which  he  sat  wave  to  and  fro  with  increasing  violence, 
until  he  was  thrown  some  distance  into  a  lake,  and  sunk 
beneath  the  waves  forever  !  Then  I  clapped  my  hands, 
and  shouted  ia  triumph.  Sometimes  I  would  see  my 
mother,  with  distorted  features  and  evil-looking  eyes,  aim 
ing  a  blow  at  my  head  ;  while  a  creature  who  seemed  like 
the  devil,  with  the  face  of  Deacon  Webber,  stood  grinning 
aftd  chuckling  behind  her.  I  caught  a  glass  tumbler  from 
the  lightstand  and  aimed  it  4t  his  head,  and  was  awoke 
from  my  delirium  by  its  going  plump  through  the 
window. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away  before  I  rerovered  from 
this  most  dangerous  sickness.  My  head  was  shaved  and 
blistered  ;  and  many  times  I  heard  it  said,  in  a  low  whis 
per,  "  He  cannot  long  survive."  Mrs.  Stewart  and  Jane 
attended  me  with  the  most  loving  faithfulness.  Sometimes 
mother  came  and  looked  at  me  with  great  anxiety,  and 
once  I  saw  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks.  After  many 
weary  days,  I  was  considered  out  of  danger,  and  began 
slowly  to  regain  health  and  strength.  / 

As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  think  at  all,  my  thoughts 
turned  to  Helen.  I  was  rejoiced  to  learn  that  the  search 
of  Deacon  Webber  had  been  as  fruitless  as  my  own.  No 
one  had  heard  from  her.  For  many  days  I  felt  that 
there  was  something  which  I  wished  to  call  to  mind :  but 


82  SEVERE  SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS. 

what  it  was  I  could  not  make  out.  At  last  I  thought  I 
had  bee\i  to  the  post-office,  previous  to  my  sickness,  and 
requested  that  all  letters  directed  to  me  should  be  kept  at 
the  office  until  I  called  for  them. 

I  had  now  been  sick  four  weeks,  and  I  felt  that  there 
must  be  letters  for  me  at  the  office.  I  despatched  Mrs. 
Stewart  with  an  order  that  they  should  be  delivered  to 
her.  She  speedily  returned  with  three  letters,  and  b^ 
their  superscriptions  I  knew  that  they  were  all  from  Uncle 
Eaton.  I  requested  Mrs.  Stewart  to  break  the  seals,  and 
read  them  to  me.  The  reader  will  be  glad  to  peruse 
them  entire. 

"  DEAR  HENRI  :  I  have  good  and  bad  news  for  you. 
lc  Helen  Means  is  here,  but.  she  is  very  sick.  Come  and 
"see  her,  if  you  can,  immediately;  if  not,  write  on  the 
tf  receipt  of  this.  In  haste,  yours, 

"THOMAS  EATON." 

0  !  how  anxious  I  was  for  the  contents  of  the  next  let 
ter.  But  I  did  not  get  them  until  I  had  doubly  and 
trebly  promised  to  be  calm.  The  second  was  no  more 
satisfactory.  It  was  dated  two  weeks  later. 

"  Why  have  you  not  written,  Henri?  Have  you  lost 
"your  interest  in  Helen,  now  that  she  has  found  a  home? 
"  She  is  dangerously  sick  with  a  fever,  but  we  hope  for 


SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD    NEWS.  83 

"  the  best.  In  her  delirium  she  often  calls  for  you, — 
"  for  you  to  save  her, —  so  piteously  that  I  cannot  refrain 
"from  shedding  tears,  when  I  hear  her.  If  you  have 
"  any  regard  for  us  or  for  her,  hasten  hither.  Do  not 
•"  delay  one  moment.  Thy  uncle, 

"THOMAS  EATON." 

I  now  trembled  with  excessive  agitation,  buij  happily  I 
was  soon  relieved  of  my  fears.  The  third  note  was  dated 
only  five  days  later.  I  never  listened  to  the  reading  of 
a  letter  with  more  intense  satisfaction.  It  was  like  good 
news  from  a  far  country,  or  like  water  to  the  thirsty 
soul.  I  had  been  fearful  that  her  great  sufferings  would 
be  too  much  for  her,  and  that  she  would  sink  in  death 
under  their  accumulated  weight,  and  I  should  never  see 
her  again. 

"DEAR  HENRI:  Twice 'have  I  written  to  you,  and 
"have  received  no  answer.  We  are  anxious  on  your 
"  account.  We  are  fearful  that  you  are  sick,  or  some 
"  mishap  has  befallen  you.  Possibly  the  letters  have  got 
"  miscarried,  or  some  one  has  taken  them  out  of  the  office 
"  without  your  knowledge.  I  shall  wait  a  few  days  for 
"  an  answer  to  this  letter,  and  if  I  do  not  receive  one,  I 
"  shall  come  to  find  out  the  cause  of  your  silence.  Helen 
"  is  convalescent.  She  is  rapidly  recovering.  What  a 
"  sweet  child  she  is !  I  never  saw  a  little  sufferer  so 


84  SEVERE  SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS. 

"  patient.  Your  aunt  is  delighted  with  her ;  and,  as  we 
11  have  no  children,  she  seems  already  like  our  own,  and 
"  no  inducement  could  be  held  out  strong  enough  to  make 
"  us  willing  to  part  with  her.  We  love  her  better  every 
"  day.  I  hope  that  you  will  soon  be  with  us,  for  Helen 
"  wishes  very  much  to  see  you.  She  sends  her  love  to 
"  her  friend  Henri.  Your  aunt  wishes  to  be  remembered. 
"  If  you  are  able,  I  want  you  to  write  without  delay. 
"  From  your  uncle, 

"THOMAS  EATON." 

11  Good  !  good  !  "  I  cried,  clapping  my  hands.  "  Now 
I  shall  get  well.  Bring  the  writing  materials,  and  an 
answer  shall  be  on  its  way  soon." 

Mrs.  Stewart  objected,  but  I  was  determined  to  write 
then ;  and  at  last  she  brought  pen,  ink  and  paper,  I 
promising  not  to  write  but  a  few  lines.  I  penned  my 
uncle  a  brief  note,  informing  him  of  my  severe  sickness, 
and  that  I  had  just  received  his  letters.  I  requested  him 
to  write  and  inform  me  where  he  found  Helen,  and  where 
she  went  to  after  she  fled  from  Deacon  Webber. 

In  relation  to  the  last  item  I  was  somewhat  particular ; 
for  my  dreams,  with  subsequent  events,  had  made  a  deep 
impression  upon  my  mind.  I  was  more  than  half  convinced 
that  my  spirit,  while  the  body  was  at  rest,  left  its  earthly 
home,  and  went  in  search  of  the  lost  child ;  and  was 
guided  to  her  by  the  guardian  spirit  of  my  father,  and 


SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS.  85 

that  he  would  henceforth  take  us  both  under  his  angel- 
care,  and  that  was  the  reason  why  Helen  went  to 
the  place  where  my  uncle  found  her,  which  ended  her 
wanderings,  and  blessed  her  with  a  dear,  sweet  home, 
where  kind  ones  would  watch  over  her  in  sickness,  and 
take  care  of  her  in  health. 

A  few  days  brought  a  reply,  which  I  was  able  to  read 
myself.  It  was  all  interesting  to  me,  and  I  hope  it  may 
prove  equally  so  to  my  readers. 


"  DEAR  HENRI  :  Your  brief  note  made  us  all  very  sad, 
"  for  we  were  fearful  that  you  had  been  subjected  to  a 
"  course  of  treatment  which  had  again  brought  on  the 
"  brain  fever.  Helen,  the  dear  child,  was  very  unhappy ; 
i:  for  she  said  that  you  had  endured  all  these  sufferings  for 
"  her  sake.  She  thought  you  must  wish  you  had  never 
"  seen  her.  I  told  her  that  you  would  have  no  regrets, 
"  as  you  had  been  instrumental  in  delivering  her  from 
"  the  hand  of  the  tormentors ;  that  you  would  glory  in 
"  the  suffering  which  had  wrought  so  great  a  good. 

"  How  could  that  fiend  —  for  I  have  no  softer  name  to 
"  apply  to  Deacon  Webber  —  so  wickedly  abuse  such  a 
"  sweet  and  gentle  child  ?  I  have  listened  to  her  simple 
"  story  with  astonishment  and  indignation.  You  know 
"  that  I  am  a  peace-man,  Henri ;  and  yet  I  feel  that  if 
"the  villain  were  here,  I  should  with  difficulty  restrain 
11  myself  from  giving  him  what  he  so  richly  deserves 


8 


86  SEVERE   SICKNESS.  —  GOOD   NEWS. 

"But  that  would  be  wrong  in  me,  I  well  know.  He 
"will  get  his  punishment  yet.  I  repeat  what  I. said  in 
"my  last  letter, — never  was  there  a  better  child.  How 
"  she  could  have  sprung  from  the  source  she  did,  and 
"have  so  much  refinement,  and  true  womanly  sense,  I 
"cannot  understand.  She  informs  me  that  her  father  is 
"  a  drunkard  ;  and  I  should  think,  from  what  she  has 
"  told  me,  that  her  mother  has  but  little  education  and 
"refinement.  Now  for  the  information  you  desire. 

"You  remember  that  we  parted  at  the  Cold  Spring 
"  with  sad  hearts.  I  never  was  more  unhappy  tnan  when 
''  I  turned  my  horse  towards  home.  I  felt  deeply  afflicted 
c  for  the  little  wanderer,  and  accused  myself  of  neglect 
Cit  of  duty,  for  not  coming  after  her  the  week  before,  and 
"  placing  her  in  some  secure  asylum,  until  your  mother 
"had  returned. 

"  Some  four  miles  from  where  I  left  you,  as  my  horse 
"  was  walking  slowly  up  a  steep  hill,  when  nearly  at  the 
"top  I  heard  a  slight  noise  in  some  bushes,  at  the  side  of 
"  the  road.  Presently  a  small  boy,  or  what  I  took  to  be 
"  one,  came  out,  and  ran  with  great  speed  down  the  hill. 
"  '  Who  goes  there  ? '  I  asked,  which  quickened  his 
"  pace.  Just  at  this  moment,  it  occurred  to  me  that  it 
"  might  be  the  lost  one,  Helen  Means.  I  called  her  by 
"  name,  saying  that  I  was  Henri's  uncle.  She  stopped, 
"and  seemed  to  hesitate.  'Don't  be  afraid,'  I  said; 
"  '  Henri  has  been  looking  for  you  all  day ;  come  and  go 


SEVERE  SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS.  87 

"  home  with  me,  poor  child  ! '     She  now  came  quickly 
"  towards  me. 

"  '  Are  you  Helen  Means  ? '  I  inquired. 

"  '  Yes  sir/  she  answered,  '  and  if  you  are  Henri's 
"  uncle,  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  home  with  you ;  for  I  have 
"  nowhere  to  stay  to-night.' 

"  '  Poor  thing  !  I  will  give  you  a  home,  and  a  good 
"  home,  too,'  I  replied;  and  I  placed  her  in  my  carriage, 
"  and  drove  rapidly  homeward. 

"  '  Where  did  you  stay  last  night  ? '  I  inquired. 

"  '  In  the  woods.7 

"  <  Were  you  not  afraid  ?  ' 

'"I  was  afraid,  at  first ;  but  I  thought  that  God  would 
"  watch  over  me,  and  so  I  laid  down  under  a  tree  and 
"  went  to  sleep.' 

"  l  Did  you  rest  well?' 

"  '  Yes  sir;  pretty  well,  for  I  was  very  tired,  having 
"  run  a  long  ways  to  escape  from  Deacon  Webber.' 

"  '  It  was  rainy,  last  night ;  —  I  suppose  you  got  very 
''wet?' 

"  '  I  was  wet  to  my  skin  when  I  awoke ;  soaked  through 
f  and  through,  it  seemed  to  me.  My  clothes  were  real 
"heavy.  My  head  was  not  wet  much,  though, —  just  a 
"  little.' 

11  { I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  been  cold.' 

"  '  I  felt  pretty  chilly,  and  so  once  in  a  while  I  would 
11  run  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  then  I  would  get  under  a 


88  SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS. 

P 

"great  tree  when  the  rain  came  down  so  fast  this  fore- 
"  noon.  After  the  sun  came  out,  I  took  off  my  clothes 
"  and  wrung  them  out,  and  then  put  them  on  ;  and  they 
"  are  nice  and  dry  now.' 

"  '  I  hope  you  had  pleasant  dreams,  last  night' 

"  'They  were  very  pleasant.  I  thought  I  was  lying 
"  asleep  in  the  woods  at  night,  and  that  I  was  afraid  to 
"  sleep  there.  I  wished  that  Henri  Eaton  would  come 
"and  stay  with  me;  and  I  opened  my  eyes.,  and  there  he 
"was,  close  to  me.  Then  I  was  not  afraid  any  more. 
"  When  he  saw  that  I  was  getting  so  wet,  he  looked  very 
"  sorrowful.  I  spoke  to  him,  and  he  left  me  in  a  moment, 
"  He  came  twice  more  during  the  night,  and  so  I  thought 
"  he  might  be  near  me  all  the  time,  and  that  I  could 
"talk  to  him  in  the  morning;  and  so  I  slept  nicely.' 

"'Under  such  peculiar  circumstances,  it  was  a  very 
"  happy  dream.  Have  you  had  anything  to  eat  ?  ' 

"  1 1  found  a  few  berries,  but  they  were  not  good  for 
"much.' 

"  *  You  must  be  very  hungry  and  faint  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,  sir ;  but  I  have  been  without  food  a  great  deal 
"  longer  than  this.' 

"  'Where,— at  Deacon  Webber's  ?' 

"'Yes,  sir.' 

"  '  Too  bad  !  but  he  will  get  his  pay  yet.  What  made 
"you  run  so,  when  I  spoke  to  you?' 


* 

SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS.  89 

"  '  I  did  not  know  but  you  were  Deacon  "Webber,  or 
'  would  carry  me  back  to  him.' 

' '  '  Should  you  rather  stay  in  the  woods  than  live  with 
"him?' 

"  c  0,  yes  ;  for  he  would  half  kill  me,  if  he  should  get 
"  me  again.' 

"  Thus  we  conversed  until  we  arrived  at  home.  Helen 
"  could  take  but  little  refreshment,  and  soon  retired.  In 
"  the  morning  she  was  in  a  high  fever,  and  delirious.  For 
"  a  number  of  days  she  was  in  a  very  critical  condition. 
"  She  lived  over  and  over  again  the  past,  especially  the 
11  last  few  days.  She  would  cry  out,  'He  is  coming! 
"  Let  me  go  !  Henri,  save  me  !  '  Then  she  would  cling 
"  to  the  bed-clothes  with  frantic  energy.  Thankful  were 
11  we  when  the  fever  abated  and  reason  returned.  She  is 
"  almost  well  now,  and  is  attending  school.  Never  did 
"you  see  a  happier  creature.  You  have  done  well, 
"  Henri ;  and  the  thought  of  it  will  be  an  unfailing 
11  source  of  satisfaction,  as  long  as  you  live. 

"  We  shall  expect  you  to  visit  us  soon.  Helen  will  be 
"  overjoyed  to  see  you,  and  so  shall  we  all.  Good-by,  my 
"  dear  nephew.  THOMAS  EATON." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  I  exclaimed,  as  I  finished  this  inter 
esting  letter.     "  Helen  is  now  safe.     The  deacon's  wrath 
may  now  be  visited  upon  me,  but  I  care  not."     I  knew 
8* 


0 
90  SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS. 

that  I  had  not  suffered  in  vain,  and  I  was  content.  There 
was  nothing  to  regret,  for  my  object  was  accomplished. 

I  found,  in  the  contents  of  this  epistle,  abundant  food 
for  thought  and  reflection.  How  singular  that  Helen's 
dream  should  be  so/  similar  to  mine  !  Three  times  she 
fancied  that  she  saw  me ;  but  did  not  see  •  the  guardian 
angel  who  led  me  to  her,  who  hffl  such  beautiful  white 
wings,  and  such  sweet,  loving  eyes.  I  wished  that  she 
could  have  seen  him  too.  But,  after  all,  there  was  only 
a  slight  difference.  How  were  the  coincidences  in  our 
dreams  to  be  accounted  for  ?  Would  the  peculiar  cir 
cumstances  by-  which  we  were  surrounded  solve  the 
enigma  1  Perhaps  so ;  but  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that 
such  strange  coincidences  could  be  accounted  for  on  the 
supposition  that  dreams  are  always  the  disturbed  fancies 
of  the  brain,  caused  by  the  action  upon  it  of  various 
external  circumstances,  which  have  been  or  are  taking 
place.  -It  seems  more  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
man  has  interior  senses,  which  may  be  awakened,  or 
called  into  action,  when  the  exterior  are  sealed,  or  in  a 
state  analogous  to  death.  It  may  be  that  the  soul,  or 
the  inner  life, —  the  immortal  spirit, —  has  the  power, 
when  the  exterior  senses  are  closed,  of  leaving  the  body 
for  a  time,  for  the  purpose  of  doing  good  to  a  suffering 
friend, —  to  relieve  distress,  and  comfort  the  sorrowing 
with  happy  thoughts. 

I  fancied  that  my  spirit  had  wandered  in  search  of 


SEVERE   SICKNESS.  —  GOOD   NEWS.  91 

Helen,  and  was  enabled  to  find  her  through  the  aid  of  a 
guardian  spirit ;  and  so  her  fears  were  removed,  and  she 
slept  sweetly,  though  the  earth  was  her  only  bed,  and  the 
storm  was  beating  in  fury  upon  her.  Whether  this  idea 
will  bear  the  test  of  enlightened  criticism  or  not,  it  does 
not  alter  the  facts.  I  learned,  by  some  means  or  other, 
that  Helen  was  in  the  woods  where  I  had  never  been ; 
and  I  was  not  only  made  aware  of  that  fact,  but  of  the 
other  things  connected  with  it. 

Notwithstanding  all  this  good  news,  and  the  best  of 
nursing,  I  was  a  long  time  in  acquiring  sufficient  strength 
to  leave'my  room. 

One  afternoon,  when  my  sister  Jane  came  in  to  .see 
me,  I  spoke  to  her  of  my  brothers  and  sisters  with  some 
severity,  because  they  did  not  more  frequently  visit  me. 

"I  am  sorry  they  feel  as  they  do,"  she  said;  "but 
you  know  that  they  and  you  never  agreed  very  well,  and 
now  they  believe  you  very  saucy  and  abusive  to  mother ; 
and  they  are  so  indignant  about  it,  that  they  do  not  come 
in  often  to  see  you,  for  fear  of  getting  into  a  dispute  with 
you  while  you  are  so  unwell." 

"  I  am  very  thankful  for  so  much  kind  forethought.  I 
hope  they  will  not  lose  their  reward." 

"You  should  not  doubt  their  motives,  for  they  are 
good.  You  are  all  hot-tempered,  and  a  dispute  now 
would  injure  you  very  much." 


92  SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS. 

"  I  wish  they  could  see  an  inch  beyond  their  noses  ! 
But  where  is  mother,  this  afternoon?" 

"She  has  gone  to  Mrs.  Webber's  funeral." 

"  Mrs.  Webber's  funeral !     What  Webber  ?  " 

"  Deacon  Webber's  wife.  Do  you  not  know  that  she 
is  dead  ?  " 

"No;  I  had  not  heard  of  her  sickness.  When  did 
she  die?" 

"Yesterday  morning.  She  has  left  a  young  child. 
It  is  sad  to  have  a  little  child  left  without  a  mother." 

"If  she  were  my  mother,  I  should  not  weep  much. 
What  a  pity  the  deacon  don't  die  too  !  " 

"Why,  Henri!  you  should  not  talk  so;  it  is  very 
wrong." 

"  He  is  a  villain,  Jane ;  and,  if  he  was  dead,  the  world 
would  have  reason  to  rejoice  !  " 

"  He,  is  your  enemy,  Henri,  but  you  should  not  be  so 
bitter  against  him.  Let  him  live  as  long  as  God  is  wil 
ling.  We  should  love  our  enemies,  and  forgive  them." 

"  You  might  as  well  ask  me  to  love  old  clump-foot 
himself  as  Deacon  Webber.  If  Milton  has  pictured  out 
the  devil  correctly,  I  have  more  of  a  fancy  for  him  than 
for  the  deacon.  There  is  something  sublime  about  the 
old  fellow.  When  cast  out  of  heaven  and  utterly  de 
feated,  he  stood  up  proudly  in  the  midst  of  his  sufferings, 
and  declared  that  he  would  rather 

•  Rule  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven  I ' 


- 


SEVERE  SICKNESS- —  GOOD   NEWS.  93 

Now,  I  like  that;  but  these  mean,  savage,  hypocritical 
creatures,  like  Deacon  Webber,  I  do  despise  and  detest !  " 

"  You  are  a  strange  boy,  Henri.  H  it  were  impos 
sible  for  us  to  forgive  and  love  our  enemies,  we  should  not 
be  so  commanded.  If  we  rightly  govern  our  spirits,  we 
shall  learn  to  love  even  our  most  bitter  foes." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  Jane." 
;.f«f Why  not?" 

"  For  a  very  good  reason.  It  is  said  that  the  devil, 
who  is  man's  worst  foe,  will  take  delight  in  tormenting 
all  he  gets  into  his  clutches.  Will  it  be  their  duty  to 
love  him  ?  If  so,  I  will  try  to  love  the  deacon ;  but  I 
think  it  a  very  hopeless  case." 

"  You  may  feel  differently ,  some  day ;  but  let  that  pass. 
I  fear  you  do  not  love  me,  Henri." 

"  Not  so  intensely  as  I  might,  perhaps.  But,  do  you 
cherish  much  regard  for  your  brother  Henri  1 " 

"  Certainly,  I  do.     But  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  witnessed  any  particular  manifestations 
of  it." 

"I  grant  that  there  has  been  more  of  coldness 
between  us,  in  days  past,  than  there  should  be  between 
brother  and  sister ;  but  I  would  have  it  so  no  more.  In 
many  respects  you  are  different  from  the  rest  of  us. 
Sometimes  you  are  too  bitter ;  but  you  have  a  kind 
heart.  You  are  liable  to  be  misunderstood.  The  better 
I  understand  you,  the  more  am  I  drawn  towards  you. 


94  SEVERE   SICKNESS. —  GOOD   NEWS. 

Henri,  I  would  have  you  confide  in  your  sister  Jane, 
and  you  shall  always  receive  a  return  of  confidence  and 
love." 

The  kind-hearted  girl  almost  wept  as  she  spoke,  and  I 
wound  my  arms  around  her  neck  and  imprinted  a  kiss 
upon  her  lips.  She  pressed  me  to  her  heart,  and  wept. 
This  was  happiness  to  me ;  for  now  there  was  one  in  our 
family  who  truly  loved  me.  Mrs.  Stewart  came  in,  and 
was  greatly  delighted,  calling  us  her  dear  children. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

VISIT  TO   MY  UNCLE'S. 

WHEN  I  was  considered  strong  enough  for  the  journey, 
I  resolved,  if  not  absolutely  forbidden,  to  visit  Uncle 
Eaton's  ;  for  I  had  a  strong  desire  to  see  Helen  Means. 
I  often  queried  with  myself  as  to  how  she  would  look  and 
appear.  I  knew  that  I  should  not  see  her  in  rags  or 
boys'  clothes,  but  dressed  with  taste  and  neatness, — 
for  my  aunt  was  a  paragon  in  such  things.  I  thought  it 
best  to  ask  mother  if  I  could  have  the  privilege  of  making 
Uncle  Thomas  a  visit ;  but  I  felt  wicked  enough  to  go, 
if  she  should  refuse.  I  suppose  my  course  would  hardly 
be  considered  justifiable,  but  the  part  I  was  acting  did 
not  trouble  me  at  all.  A  feeling  of  intense  bitterness  had 
.sprung  up  in  my  young  heart,  and  I  spoke  the  endearing 
name  of  mother  with  great  reluctance. 

Was  I  to  blame  for  this  ?  I  acknowledge  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  tie  that  binds  parents  and  children.  But  it  is 
possible  to  weaken  the  cord,  or  break  it.  Let  the  parent 
be  false  to  the  claims  of  humanity, —  ay,  doubly  false  by 
heaping  abuse  upon  a  child  for  doing  good  to  a  suffering 


96  VISIT  TO  MY  UNCLE'S. 

one, —  and  that  parent  should  not  complain,  if  the  child 
loves  and  respects  no  more.  The  mere  tie  of  relationship 
is  not  enough,  and  I  thank  God  that  it  is  not  ! 

My  mother  readily  consented  to  my  request ;  so,  one 
bright  Saturday  afternoon,  I  got  into  a  coach  and  rode  to 
my  uncle's.  My  reception  was  all  that  I  could  wish. 
As  I  was  very  faint,  and  had  rode  too  far  for  my 
strength,  my  uncle  took  me  in  his  arms,  and  carried  me 
into  the  house  and  laid  me  on  a  bed,  which  looked  so 
nice  that  it  seemed  to  be  almost  a  luxury  to  be  sick  with 
such  a  bed  to  lie  in.  The  coverlet  was  as  white  as  snow, 
and  adjusted  with  taste,  and  an  eye  to  comfort.  My  aunt 
soon  made  her  appearance,  with  a  strengthening  cordial, 
which  quickly  revived  me. 

As  my  uncle  and  aunt  stood  over  me,  I  gazed  into 
their  benevolent  faces,  and  thought  how  good  they 
looked,  and  what  a  happy  home  Helen  Means  must  have. 
My  uncle  looked  very  much  like  my  father,  and  had  the 
same  warm  heart;  and  Aunt  Eaton  was  every  way 
worthy  of  him.  She  was  one  of  the  good-natured,  whole- 
souled  women,  who  wanted  to  relieve  all  the  world.  No 
one  ever  left  her  door  hungry,  and  she  had  a  kind  word 
for  the  most  unworthy ;  and  so  her  influence  was  purify 
ing  and  ennobling.  She  was  truly  a  preacher  of  right 
eousness, —  good  deeds,  like  twin-sisters,  went  hand  in 
hand  with  good  words.  Alas  !  how  often  are  they  sep 
arated,  as  wide  as  the  poles  !  Good  words  are  dog-cheap  ; 


VISIT  TO  MY  UNCLE'S.  97 

but  good  works  are  far  too  dear,  even  for  the  elelct.  In 
a  brief  period,  I  arose  and  walked  into  tbe  sitting-room, 
and  sat  down  upon  the  sofa,  where  I  was  soon  joined  by  my 
uncle  ;  who  came  in  with  such  a  good,  self-satisfied  look, 
that  it  made  me  happy  to  behold  it.  He  was  leading  a  lovely 
little  girl,  so  lovely  that  for  a  moment  it  was  difficult  to 
realize  that  it  was  Helen.  And  yet  it  was  she.  The 
poor,  forsaken,  foully- wronged  child  stood  before  me.  But 
0,  how  changed  !  Her  skin  was  now  very  white,  lips  red 
as  crimson,  and  her  cheeks  slightly  flushed.  Her  sweet 
blue  eyes  were  radiant  with  hope  and  joy.  Her  dress  of 
the  purest  white,  with  a  blue  ribbon  around  her  neck  and 
waist,  composed  a  wardrobe  well  adapted  to  her  form  and 
complexion.  A  better  could  not  have  been  chosen,  to  make 
her  appear  interesting  and  lovely.  I  gazed  with  surprise 
and  admiration,  and  thought  I  had  never  seen  such  a 
beautiful  child. 

She  colored  deeply  when  she  saw  me,  and  I  felt  the 
blood  rush  to  my  face.  How  different  were  our  feelings 
now  from  what  they  were  when  I  frequently  saw  her 
a  little  ragged,  dirty  child.  I  pitied  her  then, —  now 
she  seemed  like  something  sacred  and  holy.  It  may  be 
that  those  who  complain  that  their  children  are  slighted 
are  themselves  the  cause  of  it.  Nothing  under  God's 
heaven  is  so  well  fitted  to  gain  the  admiration  and  love 
of  human  beings  as  a  little  child.  It  needs  but  to  be 
treated  like  a  human  being,  kept  tidy  and  dressed  neatly  j 
9 


98  VISIT  TO  MY  UNCLE'S. 

and  for  (he  latter  ye  may  pattern  of  the  birds,  or -flowers, 
or  the  trees.  Examine  every  leaf,  and  you  will  find 
all  fashioned  after  the  beautiful.  Nature  is  a  great 
teacher ;  heed  ye  her  lessons  well.  I  would  not  encourage 
extravagance  ;  0  no, —  that  is  not  required  ;  but  rather 
faithfulness  to  the  teachings  of  nature.  The  inner  often 
takes  its  coloring  from  the  outer.  Perhaps  it  may  be 
said  they  daguerreotype  each  other. 

My  uncle  regarded  us  a  moment  with  a  benignant  face, 
and  then,  as  he  would  have  treated  older  children,  turned 
and  left  us  alone.  Helen  regained  her  courage  in  a 
degree,  and  came  timidly  forward,  and  threw  her  arms 
around  my  neck  and  kissed  me.  I  returned  her  caresses. 
She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  look  sick,  Henri,"  she  said.    "  Are  you  sick  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  very  well,"  I  replied.  "  I  have  been  sick 
a  long  time,  and  I  am  very  weak  now." 

"  You  must  not  go  home  again  until  you  are  well,"  she 
said,  taking  her  seat  by  my  side. 

"  Is  this  a  good  place  for  sick  folks  ?  " 

"  0,  yes,  Henri.  I  was  very  sick,  but  your  uncle 
and  aunt  —  now  my  father  and  mother  —  were  so  good 
to  me,  and  took  such  good  care  of  me,  that  I  soon  got 
well.  I  was  very  happy  to  be  with  such  good  people 
when  I  was  sick ;  and  now  that  I  am  well,  I  am  happy 
every  day, —  happy  as  an  angel,  Henri ! " 


VISIT  TO  MY  UNCLE'S.  99 

"  Then  our  sufferings  have  not  been  in  vain.  I  told 
you,  Helen,  that  deliverance  should  come.  Thank  God  ! " 

"  But  how  you  have  suffered,  Henri !  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  grateful  I  am.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  —  how 
impossible  it  seems  to  ever  pay  you  so  great  a  debt !  " 

"It  is  all  paid  now*.  You  are  saved  and  happy,  and 
the  knowledge  of  this  fills  my  heart  with  such  pure  joy, 
that  I  would  not  part  with  it  for  the  world." 

"  But  it  has  caused  you  so  much  pain,,  and  made  your 
mother  hate  you  !  " 

"  A  fig  for  the  pain !  Who  would  not  suffer  a  little 
inconvenience  for  the  good  of  another,  especially  when  it 
fills  his  own  cup  with  joy  ?  In  a  world  where  there  is 
so  much  sin  and  wrong,  there  must  be  some  to  suffer  for 
the  good  of  others.  And  surely  my  sufferings  have  been 
but  as  a  drop  in  the  bucket." 

"  Say  not  so,  Henri.  It  is  not  a  little  thing  to  be 
brought  nigh  unto  death  twice,  for  the  good  of  another. 
You  have  been  beaten  and  spurned  from  the  presence  of 
your  mother  ;  and  you  suffer  now,  Henri ;  you  look  pale 
and  sickly." 

"  That  will  do,  Helen.  I  shall  soon  fancy  that  I  am 
quite  a  martyr,  if  you  say  much  more." 

"  And  so  you  are,  Henri ;  for  you  have  barely  escaped 
death." 

Here  my  uncle  and  aunt  came  in,  which  interrupted 
our  conversation.  The  latter  wept  when  she  realized 


100  VISIT  TO  MY  UNCLE'S. 

how  sickly  I  was.  How  I  thanked  her  in  my  heart  for 
those  tears  !  Blessings  upon  all  those  who  have  such 
warm,  kind  hearts  !  « 

"  Well,  well,"  said  my  uncle,  "  dry  your  tears,  Emma ; 
for  you  and  Helen  will  soon  make  him  better,  I'll 
warrant." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  my  aunt.  "  The  poor  child  must 
have  been  very  sick  ! "  She  now  went  out,  and  returned 
in  a  few  minutes  with  a  nice  bowl  of  gruel.  Reader,  if 
you  were  ever  sick,  and  took  a  long  ride  after  you  were 
convalescent,  and  had  brought  to  you,  on  your  return,  by 
loving  hands,  a  bowl  of  nicely-seasoned  gruel  or  milk-por 
ridge,  you  will  not  doubt  when  I  tell  you  that  I  never  in 
my  life  tasted  of  any  kind  of  food  more  agreeable  to  the 
palate  than  that  bowl  of  gruel. 

I  remained  at  my  uncle's  for  two  months,  and  my 
health  rapidly  improved.  How  could  it  be  otherwise, 
when  so  much  love  and  kindness  were  lavished  upon  me  ? 
I  heard  from  home  twice ;  Jane  wrote,  and  Mrs.  Stewart. 
They  said  that  mother  had  inquired  for  my  health,  but  said 
nothing  in  relation  to  my  return.  I  felt  very  sure  that 
she  had  no  particular  anxiety  to  see  me,  and  that  I  could 
return  the  compliment. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  VICTORY. 

"  WELCOME  home  again  !  "  said  Mrs.  Stewart,  as  I 
leaped  from  the  coach.  "  How  you  haJife  improved  !  I 
never  expected  to  see  you  so  well  again.  Bless  you, 
dear !  "  and  she  embraced  me  with  all  the  affection  of  the 
most  loving  of  mothers.  She  had  a  long  story  to  tell 
me  of  what  had  taken  place  during  my  absence.  What 
grieved  me  most  was  the  very  frequent  calls  of  Deacon 
Webber.  It  did  not  look  right,  but  very  suspicious.  I 
felt  that  it  would  result  in  no  good,  and  Mrs.  Stewart 
was  also  very  much  troubled. 

Sister  Jane  now  made  her  appearance,  and  seemed  very 
glad  to  see  me,  and  we  greeted  each  other  with  true  broth 
erly  and  sisterly  love.  I  soon  saw  mother  and  the  rest 
of  the  family,  and  shook  hands  with  them  all.  The 
greeting  was  not  very  cordial,  but  it  was  as  much  so  as 
could  have  been  expected,  under  the  circumstances. 

I  had  been  at  home  but  a  few  days,  when  I  received  a 
message  from  my  mother,  commanding  my  immediate 
presence. 

I  obeyed  the  summons,  and '  found  her  and  Deacon 
9* 


102  THE  VICTORY. 

Webber  sitting  precisely  as  I  last  saw  them.  I  was 
severely  tempted  to  say  something  very  insulting ;  but, 
on  second  thought,  concluded  that  I  had  better  not. 

My  mother  asked  me  to  be  seated,  and  then  the  deacon 
arose  very  pompously,  as  though  he  was  about  to  say 
something  of  great  importance,  looking  all  the  time  so 
very  pious,  the  old  wolf ! 

"  Young  man,"  said  he,  "  have  you  repented  of  your 
past  transgresses  ?  " 

"  Who  put  you  in  inquisitor  general  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  None  of  your  insolence,  sir !  "  he  replied.  "  If  you 
do  not  humble  yourself,  and  answer  me  respectfully,  the 
greater  will  be  your  punishment." 

This  talk  almost  made  me  furious.  "  Deacon  Webber," 
I  said,  "  no  more  of  your  hypocritical  cant,  and  rascally 
nonsense  !  and  as  to  your  insulting  questions,  I  will  not 
answer  one  of  them  !  " 

He  trembled  and  sprang  towards  me  ;  and  I  caught  tip 
a  chair,  and  stood  on  the  defensive,  ready  to  strike  if  he 
should  but  lay  his  hand  upon  me.  It  would  have  pleased 
me  well,  just  then,  to  have  hit  the  deacon,  and  hit  him 
hard.  I  expected  that  he  would  attempt  to  take  the  chair 
from  me,  but  he  did  not ;  and  when  I  thought  how  young 
I  was,  I  despised  him  for  his  cowardice. 

"  Put  down  that  chair  !  "  said  my  mother. 

"  I  will,"  I  replied,  "  when  the  deacon  occupies  a  less 
threatening  attitude." 


THE  VICTORY.  103 

"  Henri,  your  conduct  is  strange  and  unaccountable  ! 
Are  you  crazy  ?  "  she  said,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  crazy ;  but  I  am  bound  to  defend 
myself!" 

The  deacon  stood  and  surveyed  me,  as  if  he  was  some 
what  uncertain  whether  I  was  a  human  being  or  some 
thing  more.  I  fancied  he  thought  me  his  evil  genius. 
He  really  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  me,  and  I  was  not  sorry; 
for  I  knew  well  enough  that  he  really  ached  to  get  hold 
of  me,  and  manifest  his. good- will  by  giving  me  a  few  of 
his  impressive  arguments.  But  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
that,  if  he  offered  to  lay  his  hand  upon  me,  he  would  find 
me  very  much  inclined  to  defend  myself.  Though  but 
a  boy,  he  would  have  found  me  an  earnest  one,  when 
thus  roused.  Just  at  that  time,  a  blow  upon  the  head, 
from  the  weapon  I  held  in  my  hands,  might  have  been 
rather  serious.  I  know  that  I  was  rash ;  but  I  had  the 
utmost  abhorrence  of  the  deacon.  My  hatred  was  bitter 
and  intense ;  and,  if  he  had  touched  me,  even  with  the 
approval  of  my  mother,  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  veins 
would  have  cried  out  revenge,  and  perchance  not  in  vain. 

In  due  time  he  became  convinced  that  I  was  not  dis 
posed  to  yield  the  floor ;  so  he  sat  down.  I  followed  his 
example,  casting  upon  him  looks  of  hatred  and  contempt. 

My  mother  seemed  to  tremble  with  passion  and  indig 
nation  at  my  conduct.  But  I  thought  she  felt  afraid  of 
me,  and  that  gave  me  renewed  courage.  I  do  not  sup- 


104  THE  VICTORY. 

_/ 

pose  that  she  wanted  the  deacon  to  do  me  any  lasting 
injury ;  but  she  was  particularly  anxious  that  I  should 
treat  him  with  a  great  deal  of  deference,  and  be  very 
humble,  and  answer  his  questions  in  a  repentant  spirit, 
and  quietly  acquiesce  in  the  decision  they  had  made  con 
cerning  my  great  sins,  which  were  so  severely  felt  by  the 
deacon.  She  had  hoped  that  the  previous  interview,  my 
subsequent  sickness,  and  some  manifestations  of  kindness, 
might  have  weakened  and  subdued  me.  But  she  found 
me  more  determined  than  ever ;  and  this  was  extremely 
mortifying. 

Taking  my  eyes  from  the  deacon,  I  fixed  them  boldly 
upon  her.  "  You  have  sent  for  me,"  said  I,  "  giving  me 
to  understand  that  business  of  importance  demanded  my 
attention.  If  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me  of  an  im 
portant  nature,  it  is  my  duty  to  hear  it,  I  suppose  ;  but 
what  has  Deacon  Webber  to  do  about  it  7  " 

"  The  crime  was  committed  against  him,  and  he  should 
have  some  voice  in  relation  to  the  punishment  which  you 
are  to  receive." 

« Very  convincing,  truly  !  But  I  should  think  it 
necessary  to  prove  that  he  has  suffered  wrong,  before  he 
inflicts  punishment." 

"He  knows  that." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  for  I  know  that  he  has  suffered  no 
wrong  at  my  hands." 


THE  VICTORY.  105 

"  Where  is  my  horse,  my  -wagon  and  my  little  serv 
ant  ?  "  said  the  deacon. 

"  I  am  not  their  keeper,  deacon  ;  so  I  cannot  inform 
you,"  I  replied. 

"  He  has  grievously  suffered  at  your  hands,  Henri, 
and  restitution  should  be  made,  as  far  as  in  your  power," 
remarked  my  mother ;  "  and  your  punishment  should  be 
in  accordance  .with  the  deeds  of  wrong." 

"  I  have  not  wronged  him  at  all ;  but  he  has  wronged 
me,  and  so  have»you ;  and  Helen  Means  was  shamefully 
abused  by  you  both  !  " 

"  This  is  scandalous  !  "  said  the  deacon. 

"  More  than  that,"  I  replied  ;  "it  was  outrageous  !  " 

"  I  am  surprised,  Henri,"  said  my  mother,  "  that  you 
should  look  and  talk  so  strangely.  Have  you  forgotten 
that  you  are  but  fifteen  1 " 

"  And  '  I  am  surprised  that  you  should  look  and  talk 
so  strangely.'  No,  mother,  I  have  not  forgotten  that; 
and  I  remember  something  equally  important." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  I  shall  be  sixteen  in  a  few  weeks.  But  what 
has  this  to  do  with  the  important  subject  to  which  I  am 
to  listen?" 

"  Nothing ;  only,  when  you  talk  to  those  who  are  so 
much  older,  you  should  be  more  respectful." 

"  I  am  respectful,  when  they  deserve  it." 


106  THE   VICTORY. 

"  Any  one  would  suppose  you  to  be  twenty-five,  instead 
of  fifteen,  to  hear  you  talk." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  compliment.  If  I  were  twenty- 
five,  things  would  be  different  from  what  they  are  now. 
Some  folks  would  be  careful  what  they  did,  and  where 
they  icent,  and  how  long  they  stayed!  " 

Here  the  deacon  arose,  looking  very  angry,  and  said 
he  would  not  bear  these  insults  any  longer,  and  took  his 
hat  and  marched  out  of  the  house.  While  I  stood  at  the 
window,  watching  his  retreating  footsteps,  mother  said, 

"  I  beg  of  you  not  to  talk  any  more  as  you  have  done, 
or  I  shall  think  you  insane.  Do  be  more  reasonable." 

"  I  try  to  adapt  myself  to  the  company  I  am  in ;  and, 
under  present  circumstances,  it* is  the  best  I  can  do. 
Have  you  anything  more  that  you  wish  to  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  to  grow  calm, 
BO  that  I  could  talk  to  you  in  relation  to  the  subject 
which  has  been  so  long  under  consideration.  We  have 
con " 

"  Who  's  we  ?  "  I  inquired,  interrupting  her. 

11  Deacon  Webber  and  myself." 

"  I  thought  it  very  probable ;  but  go  on,  if  you 
please." 

"  I  could  not  well  do  otherwise  than  consult  Deacon 
Webber ;  for,  through  your  instrumentality,  he  has  been 
a  great  sufferer.  Why  you  have  done  as  you  have,  I 
cannot  tell ;  but  I  hope  that  you  have  not  been  so  bad  as 


THE    VICTORY.  107 

your  actions-would  indicate.  We  have  chosen  the  mildest 
punishment  which  the  circumstances  would  admit  of, —  a 
punishment  which  may  seem  severe  now,  but,  in  the  end, 
it  may  place  you  in  a  position  honorable  to  yourself 
and  family.  You  are  to  go  into  the  navy,  as  a  midship 
man." 

"  I  have  no  taste  for  the  navy,  mother;  and  I  shall 
consult  my  guardian  before  I  assent  to  that  arrange 
ment." 

"I  don't  want  the  least  opposition  from  you  to  this 
plan.  It  will  be  best  for  you  to  submit.  Come,  be  a 
good  boy  once!" 

"  This,  you  say,  is  my  punishment ;  and  I  have  only 
done  good  !  " 

"  Don't  call  such  conduct  good  ;  for  you  are  sinful 
enough  already.  I  am  your  mother,  and  it  is  your  duty 
to  obey  me." 

"  Not  in  such  a  case  as  this.  I  abhor  such  baseness. 
Did  you  and  the  deacon  hatch  that  out,  after  setting 
three  months?  Quite  a  bantling  !" 

"  Do  not  anger  me,  Henri,  or  I  may  say  and  do  what  I 
shall  be  sorry  for." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  excite  you,  or  put  you  in  a  passion; 
but  I  have  no  inclination  for  the  life  you  have  chosen  for 
me." 

" Why  not?" 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  have  no  taste  for  it; 


108  THE   VICTORY. 

and,  if  I  had,  I  should  not  be  willing  to  enter  the  navy, 
if  I  was  sent  there  to  punish  me  for  performing  a  good 
act.  I  have  already  suffered  severely,  and  you  ought  to 
be  satisfied. " 

"It  is  blasphemy,  Henri,  to  call  wickedness  and 
wrong  goodness." 

"  That  may  all  be  true;  so  some  people  had  better  be 
careful  what  they  say.  I  aided  in  the  escape  of  Helen 
Means,  and  God  knows  that  I  did  well ;  and,  had  I  died 
for  it,  the  thought  would  have  made  my  last  moments 
sweet ! " 

"  Then  there  is  no  repentance  ?  " 

"  Repentance  !  Do  you  think  that  I  could  be  so  base 
as  to  repent  of  that  ?  When  I  repent  of  such  a  deed, 
may  the  good  Lord  visit  me  with  his  wrath !  " 

"  Be  careful,  Henri,  or  he  will.  The  evil  one  has 
blinded  you,  that  he  may  drag  your  soul  down  to 
perdition." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  mother.  God  will  not  punish  me 
for  a  deed  like  that,  unless  he  is  a  monster.  I  have  but 
imitated  the  example  of  his  Son,  and  suffered  for  doing 
good;  so  don't  be  frightened,  if  I  claim  that,  in  so  far  as 
the  deed  is  concerned  that  you  wish  to  punish  me  for,  I 
am  like  his  Son." 

"  Why  Henri !  how  you  do  talk  !  You  make  my  blood 
run  cold.  For  a  human  being  to  compare  himself  to 


THE  VICTORY.  109 

Christ  is  blasphemy.  If  you  go  on  in  this  way,  you  will 
be  left  to  commit  the  sin  which  can  never  be  forgiven." 

"  I  don't  fear  that,  in  the  least.  Deacon  Webber 
would  be  glad  to  shut  me  out  of  heaven,  I  doubt  not ;  but 
he  has  not  the  power.  He  don't  happen  to  have  the  key. 
God  only  punishes  for  evil  deeds,  but  ^  never  for  good 
ones.'7 

"  Well,  let  that  pass.  If  you  will  obey  me  in  this,  we 
shall  have  no  further  trouble.  In  a  few  weeks  every 
thing  will  be  ready  for  your  departure." 

"  You  had  better  make  up  your  mind  that  I  shall  not 
enter  the  navy.  I  shall  not,  if  I  can  help  it,  submit  to 
any  punishment  for  the  good  I  have  done.  I  am  very 
sure  that  my  guardian  will  not  allow^  one  cent  of  my 
share  of  the  property  to  be  used  for  the  object  you  and 
the  deacon  have  in  view ;  and  Uncle  Thomas  would  never 
consent  that  I  should  be  forced  to  adopt  that  to  which  I 
am  so  much  opposed." 

11  Your  uncle  has  nothing  to  do  about  it,  and  it  will 
not  be  well  for  him  to  interfere.  I  shall  consult  your 
guardian  at  once." 

"  So  shall  I ;  and,  if  need  be,  Uncle  Thomas  will  con 
sult  him  too.  It  is  better  for  all  concerned  that  this  mat 
ter  should  be  left  where  it  is ;  for  I  know  that  its  further 
agitation  is  useless,  and  can  result  in  no  good." 

"If  you  were  not  a  vile,  ungrateful  boy,"  said  my 
10 


110  THE   VICTORY. 

mother,  bursting  into  tears,  "  you  would  do  as  I  desire. 
You  were  always  a  wicked,  disobedient  child  !  " 

So  saying,  she  left  the  room.  I  went,  without  delay,  to 
consult  with  my  guardian ;  and  when  I  had  told  him  what 
my  mother  had  said,  he  replied, 

"The  deuce  take  it!  You  enter  the  navy!  You  be 
a  midshipman  !  What  can  the  old  lady  be  thinking 
about,  to  wish  to  make  a  midshipman  of  you  ?  That  old, 
black  fellow,  Webber,  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  I  '11  warrant 
you.  Well,  well,  what  say,  — how  would  you  like  it?  " 

"  Mr.  Edgarton,"  said  I,  "  I  should  not  like  it  at  all." 

11  Just  so,  just  so.  I  knew  you  would  not ;  no  place 
for  you.  Better  be  a  farmer, —  most  independent  life 
there  is, —  healthiest,  too.  Did  you  tell  your  mother  that 
you  did  not  wish  to  enter  the  navy  ?  " 

"  I  did  ;  and,  what 's  more,  I  told  her  plainly  that  I 
WQuld  not  do  it !  " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  Square  as  a  brick  !  What  said 
she  to  that?" 

"  She  said  that  I  should  do  as  she  wished, —  that  I 
must  obey,  and  she  would  immediately  consult  you." 

"  Consult  me  !  What  will  she  consult  me  for, —  does 
she  suppose  that  I  shall  take  my  horsewhip  and  drive  you 
there?" 

"  No,  but  she  wants  you  to  hand  over  a  little  cash, — 
one  or  two  cool  hundreds,  that 's  all." 


.THE   VICTORY.  Ill 

"  Not  a  cent  for  any  such  purpose  !  —  not  one  cent ! 
So  she  may  set  her  heart  at  rest." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  I  replied. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it, —  duty,  that 's  all.  But  how  do  you 
and  the  deacon  get  along  ?  He  told  me  that  he  had  a 
long  bill  against  you." 

"  And  I  intend  to  settle  it,  one  of  these  days, —  at 
least,  to  my  satisfaction." 

"  Don't  be  rash,  boy, —  have  a  care.  Have  you  seen 
him  lately?" 

"I  have  just  had  a  little  skirmish  with  him." 

"  You  have,— how  's  that?  " 

"  He  said  that  I  was  very  insulting ;  and  so  he  came  at 
me  with  the  intention  of  teaching  me  to  be  a  little  more 
respectful  to  my  superiors  !  " 

4 'What  did  you  do  — run?" 

"  Not  I,  Mr.  Edgarton;  I  caught  up  a  chair,  and  he 
did  not  dare  to  touch  me  !  " 

"  You  did  !  Bravo !  You  caught  up  a  chair, —  ha, 
ha,  ha  !  Meant  to  hit  him, —  give  him  a  smash  —  hey  ? 
ha,  ha,  ha  !  What  an  old  fool,  to  be  afraid  of  such  a  little 
pale-face  as  you  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mr.  Edgarton,  I  am  pretty 
strong  and  gritty,  and  he  knew  he  would  catch  it." 

11  0,  you  little  fighting-cock,  you!  I  guess  you  will 
do  for  the  navy,  after  all.  I  shall  shell  out  about  five 
hundred." 


112  THE   VICTORY.. 

"  If  you  do,  I  will  fight  you,  if  ever  I  get  large 
•enougli !  I  '11  give  you  one  gun,  a  realrouser,  and  I  will 
blow  you  up  now  !  " 

*"  1  am  so  large  that  you  cannot  blow  me  up  very 
high  ;  so  I  don't  tremble  a  bit.  If  you  had  a  chair,  I 
might  be  frightened, —  ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

"  I  hope  not,  I  am  sure." 

"  But  you  scared  the  deacon  —  good  !  I  like  you  all 
the  better  for  it.  I  like  to  see  a  little  spunk.  The  old 
fool,  to  be  frightened  at  a  boy  with  a  chair !  —  ha.  ha,  ha, 
ha  !  what  a  coward  !  He  says  that  you  are  a  terrible 
wicked  chap —  '  prone  to  evil  as  the  sparks  fly  upwards.' 
Don't  you  think  he  feels  badly,  because  you  are  so 
wicked  —  hey  ?  Won't  he  pray  for  you  before  he  goes 
to  bed  to-night  ?  —  ha,  ha,  ha  !  "  and  he  gave  me  two  or 
three  nudges  and  punches  in  my  sides,  as  he  went  on 
talking  and  laughing. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Edgarton,  I  want  a  true  friend,  just  now ; 
and  you  must  stand  by  me." 

11  Never  fear  —  never  fear!  I '11  put  you  through 
safe.  But  don't  go  yet.  You  han't  been  into  the  house. 
I  '11  tell  ye  what,  you  shall  stop  to  dinner,  and  I  will  kill 
one  of  my  best  chickens, —  so  walk  in." 

I  could  not  say  no  to  such  a  warm-hearted  invitation, 
and  I  remained  till  after  dinner.-  We  had  a  merry  time; 
for,  every  little  while,  Mr.  Edgarton  would  burst  out 
about  the  chair  and  the  deacon,  and  laugh  as  hearty  as 


THE   VICTORY.  113 

tjver.  He  said  it  was  no  wonder  that  my  mother  wanted 
to  put  me  into  the  navy,  when  I  could  frighten  a  big, 
)ld,  black  deacon  with  a  chair ! 

After  some  more  useless  controversy  and  hard  talk 
with  my  mother  about  the  navy,  the  whole  matter  was 
dropped,  greatly  to  my  satisfaction ;  for  I  had  won  the 
victory,  and  for  the  future  had  little  to  fear. 
10* 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

• 

THE  IMPENDING  DOOM. 

I  WAS  still  comparatively  weak,  and  my  health  far 
from  good.  My  system  had  received  a  severe  shock,  and 
I  had  taken  too  many  poisonous  medicines  to  allow  me 
to  cherish  any  reasonable  hope  of  being  well  at  present. 
After  a  few  weeks  devoted  to  work  and  play,  I  returned 
to  my  books  and  school. 

The  deacon  still  visited  my  mother,  and  his  calls 
became  more  frequent  and  protracted,  They  were 
together  every  day  and  evening.  This  was  alarming, —  , 
but  what  could  I  do  ?  At  last,  Jane,  much  to  my  satis 
faction,  broached  the  subject  to  me,  and  expressed  her 
fears  that  it  was  their  intention  to  marry  soon.  She 
thought  the  children  ought  to  use  their  influence  to  pre 
vent  it,  if  possible.  She  informed  me  that  the  other 
children  were  very  anxious  to  escape  a  calamity  so  much 
to  be  dreaded. 

As  much  as  they  had  clung  to  mother  and  blamed  me, 
they  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  Deacon  Webber  should 
everTiold  the  relation  of  a  father-in-law  to  them.  They 


THE  IMPENDING  DOOM.  115 

had  no  more  confidence  in  him  than  I.  There  had 
been  more  cordiality  between  them  and  me,  of  late ;  for 
Jane  and  Mrs.  Stewart  labored  to  show  them  how  mat 
ters  stood,  and  that  I  was  not  so  much  to  blame  as 
they  had  supposed,  having  only  heard  one  side  of  the 
question.  It  was  at  length  decided  that  we  should  con 
sult  together  as  to  the  best  means  to  be  used  to  accom 
plish  the  object  in  view,  the  prevention  of  a  great  evil.  I 
found  them  all  determined  to  oppose  the  marriage,  if  one 
was  intended,  and  not  at  all  inclined  to  own  the  deacon  a 
relative  of  theirs.  Here  was  union,  for  once ;  and  we 
resolved  to  remonstrate  with  mother  on  the  impropriety, 
folly,  ay,  madness  of  uniting  her  destiny  with  his. 

Our  meeting  was  not  entirely  in  vain,  for  a  mutual 
reconciliation  took  place.  I  heartily  rejoiced  at  this,  for 
I  knew  that  we  should  all  be  better  and  happier.  My 
heart  yearned,  when  not  embittered  by  contention,  for 
their  sympathy  and  love.  I  had  often  felt  that  our  feel 
ings  and  treatment  of  each  other  were  unnatural  and 
wicked.  It  was  always  painful  to  Mrs.  Stewart,  and  she 
labored  hard  to  remove  the  evil. 

During  our  interview,  Thomas  expressed  a  wish,  which 
was  seconded  by  the  rest,  that  I  should  give  them  all  the 
facts  in  relation  to  Helen  Means.  I  complied  with  their 
request,  and  gave  them  the  whole  story,  and  the  part  I 
had  acted  in  it.  When  they  had  heard  me  through,  they 
bitterly  regretted  the  course  they  had  taken.  I  was 


116  THE  IMPENDING  DOOM. 

rejoiced  to  find  that  they  were  better  at  heart  than  I 
anticipated,  and  they  were  pleased  to  learn  that  I  was 
worthy  of  confidence  and  love. 

They  now  felt  more  keenly  than  ever  the  utter  impos 
sibility  of  any  other  result  but  misery,  deep  and  lasting, 
from  a  union  between  the  deacon  and  mother. 

The  next  day,  the  presence  of  my  mother  was  requested 
in  the  same  room  where  I  had  twice  been  summoned.  Our 
relative  positions  had  changed,  for  I  had  now  summoned 
her.  She  started  and  became  very  pale  when  she  saw  who 
were  present.  I  read  her  thoughts  at  a  glance,  and  she 
probably  read  ours.  Lizzy  handed  her  a  chair,  and  asked 
her  to  sit  down. 

"  This  is  a  strange  proceeding,"  she  remarked;  "  a  for 
mal  summons  from  my  own  children.  What  does  this 
mean  7" 

"  We  think,"  said  Thomas,  with  some  hesitation,  "  that 
we  have  something  of  deep  and  vital  importance  to  say  to 
you, —  important  to  your  welfare,  and  vitally  important 
to  ours!" 

"I  should  suppose  so  by  your  looks,"  she  replied. 
"  What  can  be  the  nature  of  it?  for  your  course  is  unu 
sual  and  strange." 

"  The  mystery  will  soon  be  solved,  mother.  We  wish 
to  talk  with  you  of  Deacon  Webber  and  yourself," 
Thomas  continued. 

"  I  am  ready  to  hear  all  you  have  to  offer,"  she  replied. 


THE   IMPENDING   DOOM.  117 

"  The  intimacy  between  you  and  Deacon  Webber  has 
caused  us  to  feel  much  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  the  fam 
ily.  Since  Mrs.  Webber's  death,  he  has  called  to  see  you 
almost  every  day  or-  evening.  What  his  object  is  we 
know  not ;  but  we  think  it  must  be  of  a  serious  character, 
for  of  late  nearly  half  of  his  time  is  spent  with  you." 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?"  she  said,  biting  her  lips. 

"  We  wish  to  know  whether  rumor  tells  the  truth,  that 
you  have  engaged  to  marry  Deacon  Webber." 

"  Well,  supposing  I  have, —  what  then  ?  " 

"If  it  is  so,  mother,  or  you  have  any  such  thought  or 
intention,  we  beg  of  you,  if  not  for  your  own  welfare,  for 
the  welfare  of  your  children  and  friends,  to  pause  and 
reflect.  The  step  once  taken,  can  never  be  recalled." 

"  I  shall  not  ask  my  children  whether  I  shall  marry  or 
not.  I  *,hink  I  know  as  well  what  my  own  welfare  is  as 
you.  I  think  I  know  as  well  what  is  for  your  good.  I 
am  old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself,  and  regulate  my 
own  affairs ;  and  when  I  wish  for  advice,  especially  from 
my  children,  I  will  let  them  know  it." 

"  But  we  beseech  you  to  hear  us,  and  not  act  hastily  in 
this  matter.  We  do  not  know  that  it 's  your  intention  to 
marry  Deacon  Webber ;  but,  if  it  is,  we  feel  called  upon 
to  utter  our  most  solemn  protest  against  it.  We  cannot 
but  regard  such  a  step  with  the  deepest  abhorrence." 

"  Pretty    children,  you    are  !     to  talk  thus  to  your 


118  THE  IMPENDING    DOOM. 

mother.  I  expected  nothing  better  from  Henri,  for  he 
has  ever  thwarted  my  wishes  when  in  his  power.  But 
I  did  expect  different  treatment  from  the  rest  of  you. 
You  are  now  united  to  drive  me  from  my  purpose  ;  but 
you  shall  not  succeed.  I  shall  do  my  duty,  in  spite  of 
your  threats.  The  salvation  of  this  house  may  depend 
on  this  union." 

"  I  should  think  that  the  word  ruin  would  convey  the 
idea  better,"  I  remarked. 

"Keep  your  evil  tongue  still,  Henri!  I  have  had 
enough  of  your  impudence  already  !  " 

"  I  merely  made  the  suggestion,  thinking  that  the  mis 
take  would  be  very  natural,  under  the  circumstances.  We 
are  sure  that  utter  ruin  would  be  the  result.  We  cannot 
say  less  than  this." 

"  I  shall  hear  no  more  from  any  of  you.  You  are  all  an 
ungrateful  set ;  and,  instead  of  giving  heed  to  your  wishes, 
I  shall  consult  my  own  happiness,  and  the  welfare  of  those 
who  are  leagued  against  me.  Go  about  your  business, 
every  one  of  ,you,  and  don't  mention  the  subject  to  me 
again ! " 

"  We  have  not  said  a  tithe  of  what  we  wish  to  say," 
remarked  Thomas. 

"You  have  said  too  much,  already,  and  I'll  hear  no 
more !  "  She  now  left  us,  shutting  the  door  after  her  with 
great  violence.  Thus  it  was  made  plain  to  us  that  she  had 


THE   IMPENDING   DOOM.  119 

determined  to  marry  Deacon  Webber,  and  naught  that  we 
could  do  or  say  would  alter  her  fatal  resolution.  We  all 
thought  it  best,  after  consulting  our  guardian,  to  remain 
at  home,  for  the  sake  of  George  and  Charlotte,  who  were 
too  young  to  leave  it. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE   MARRIAGE   AND   ITS   RESULTS. 

THANKSGIVING  days  in  past  years  had  been  days  of 
pleasure  to  us.  A  number  of  relatives  usually  gathered 
at  our  house;  so  that,  with  good  company  and  good  cheer, 
we  regarded  the  day  as  our  annual  jubilee.  How  different 
were  our  feelings  this  year,  as  Thanksgiving  day  ap 
proached  !  It  seemed  to  be  shrouded  in  gloom  and  misery. 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  was  the  appointed  time  for  the 
marriage  of  mother  and  Deacon  Webber.  A  large  company 
assembled,  on  the  evening  of  that  day,  to  witness  what 
seemed  to  me  a  horrible  farce.  For  a  brief  period,  all 
went  well ;  but  in  a  few  months  our  home,  bad  enough  be 
fore,  became  a  place  scarcely  endurable.  How  gloomy, 
how  dark,  were  those  long  winter  months  !  It  seemed  as 
though  they  would  last  forever.  At  least,  our  home,  I 
thought,  will  never  know  spring-time  and  summer  again. 

The  deacon  came  to  our  house,  with  his  whole  family 
consisting  of  two  sons  and  three  daughters;  and  they 
were  worthy  of  their  sire,  with  the  exception  of  the  babe, 


THE   MARRIAGE    AND    ITS   RESULTS.  121 

who  grew  every  day  more  beautiful,  and  Mrs.  Stewart, 
having  the  whole  care  of  her,  loved  her  dearly.  And  we 
all  loved  little  Katy,  notwithstanding  the  hatred  we  boro 
her  father.  His  other  children  were  too  much  like  himself 
to  merit  our  regard,  or  win  our  affection  and  esteem.  The 
elder  brother  and  sister  were  professors  of  religion,  and 
as  wicked  as  they  were  pious.  They  kept  the  Sabbath 
strictly,  attended  all  the  religious  meetings,  and  made 
great  pretensions  to  godliness ;  but  that  was  as  far  as 
their  piety  went.  As  to  practical  religion,  and  Christ- 
like  goodness,  they  knew  nothing  about  them,  and  cared 
less.  Their  idea  of  Christianity  was  this, —  to  live  so  as 
to  escape  the  miseries  of  hell  and  gain  the  bliss  and  glory 
of  heaven;  an  idea  not  one  whit  in  advance  of  the 
heathen.  They  would  have  called  St.  James'  exposition 
of  pure  and  undefiled  religion,  before  God  the  Father, 
mere  morality,  scarcely  worthy  of  the  notice  of  Christians. 

It  is  bad  enough,  always,  to  bring  together  in  this  way 
two  sets  of  children ;  but  in  our  case  it  was  madness. 
Sometimes  we  had  a  regular  pitched  battle,  beginning  in 
words  and  ending  in  blows.  These  conflicts  were  not  con 
fined  alone  to  me. 

In  the  summer  following  the  marriage,  Mrs.  Stewart, 
at  the  request  of  my  mother,  made^  rich  cake  for  Rose 
Webber,  the  youngest  but  one  of  the  deacon's  children, 
to  carry  to  a  children's  pic-nic.  But  she,  being  a  very 
greedy  child,  and  having  never  been  accustomed  to  rich 
11 


122  THE  MARRIAGE  AND   ITS  RESULTS. 

cake,  cut  off  a  slice  and  ate  it.  Soon  after,  feeling  hun 
gry,  I  went  to  the  cupboard  for  a  luncheon  ;  and  seeing 
the  cake,  and  not  knowing  for  whom  it  was  made,  I  very 
carelessly  took  it  up  and  broke  off  a  piece,  that  did  not 
look  as  though  it  came  from  the  hands  of  a  mother-in-law. 
"With  the  cake,  and  a  generous  slice  of  cheese,  I  sat  down 
to  regale  myself  at  my  leisure,  when  in  came  Rose,  after 
her  cake.  She  was  furious  when  she  saw  what  I  had 
done.  She  sprang  at  me  like  a  young  tigress,  snatching 
the  cake  from  my  hand  and  throwing  it  upon  the  floor. 
"Thief!  Thief!"  she  cried. 

"  Don't  call  me  a  thief,"  said  I,  "  or  I  will  teach  you 
better  manners  !  "  v 

"  You  are  a  thief,  old  Hen  Eaton,  and  I  will  tell  my 
father  of  you  !  "  So  saying,  she  snatched  the  cake  from 
the  floor,  and  threw  it  in  my  face. 

I  was  exasperated  beyond  endurance.  I  caught  her, 
and  boxed  her  ears  until  she  promised  better  fashions. 
But  I  soon  had  the  whole  pack  upon  me,  and  a  regular 
fight  ensued,  when  I  should  have  got  most  roughly  han 
dled,  if  brother  Thomas  had  not  come  to  my  relief.  After 
some  hard  knocks,  we  were  separated  by  Mrs.  Stewart. 

She  was  the  same  good  soul,  amid  all  tlys  din  arid  con 
fusion.  But,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her-  great  love  for  me, 
and  her  attachment  to  little  Katy,  who  seemed  to  regard 
her  as  a  mother,  and  a  promise  to  my  father,  she  would 


THE  MARRIAGE  AND   ITS  RESULTS.  123 

have  left  us;  for  her  whole  soul  abhorred  this  miserable 
strife  and  confusion. 

Whatever  might  be  said  of  my  mother  in  other  respects, 
she  was  never  mean  arid  close.  She  spent  her  money 
freely  for  everything  that  was  really  needful;  and  as 
many  of  the  luxuries  of  life  were  provided  for  herself  and 
family  as  were  desirable.  She  freely  gave  for  purposes 
of  charity,  for  the  support  of  the  gospel,  and  she  was 
ever  anxious  to  fully  remunerate  those  who  toiled  for  her 
or  hers. 

The  deacon  was  the  reverse  of  this,  with  the  exception 
of  what  he  gave  for  religious  purposes.  In  matters  of 
religion  he  seemed  to  be  very  liberal.  With  a  soul  so 
little,  a  disposition  so  mean,  he  could  not  patiently  sub 
mit  to  our  manner  of  life.  He  was  ever  fretting  about 
our  useless  extravagance.  "Every  day,"  he  said,  "a 
large  amount  is  wasted,  which  ought  to  be  used  for 
pious  purposes, —  to  send  the  gospel  to  the  heathen,  and 
furnish  the  poor  with  Bibles."  If  he  had  seen  a  man 
starving,  I  think  he  would  have  prescribed  a  Bible  or  a 
religious  tract,  instead  of  giving  him  something  to  eat. 
If  people  complained  of  destitution,  they  must  trust  in  the 
Lord.  All  tlxis  was  mortifying  to  mother ;  for  she  began 
to  realize  that  he  was  not  that  perfect  pattern  she  had 
supposed  him  to  be.  I  sometimes  thought  she  despised 
his  mean,  niggard  soul. 

She  witnessed  some  of  his  diabolical  temper,  not  only 


124  THE  MARRIAGE   AND   ITS   RESULTS. 

with  his  own  children,  but  with  hers  also.  I  felt  that  she 
would  soon  get  enough  of  him ;  —  at  least,  I  hoped  so. 

Soon  after  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  with  us,  with  his 
Ishmaelitish  tribe,  he  and  Job,  his  youngest  son,  were 
engaged  in  chopping  wood  at  the  door.  Job  was  cutting 
small,  round  wood.  While  thus  engaged,  a  stick  which  he 
had  struck  rather  carelessly  flew  and  hit  his  father  on 
the  head,  and  almost  knocked  him  down.  The  deacon  was 
enraged ;  he  caught  up  the  stick  of  wood,  and  laid  it  over 
poor  Job  in  a  most  savage  manner,  and  he  did  not  stop 
until  mother  interfered.  As  it  was,  Job  was  laid  up  for 
nearly  a  week.  He  once  gave  my  sister  Charlotte  a  blow 
which  sent  her  reeling  to  the  floor,  because  she  did  not 
fill  his  filthy  black  pipe  as  he  desired  it  to  be  done.  I 
was  not  at  home  at  the  time  ;  but  it  created  a  great  uproar, 
nevertheless.  My  brothers  threatened,  and  my  sisters  wept ; 
while  Hezekiah  and  Hannah  stood  by  and  mocked  them, 
—  the  unfeeling  wretches  ! 

The  deacon  had  cautioned  us  all  to  be  careful  and  lock 
the  stable-doors  at  night ;  for  a  number  of  horses  had  been 
stolen,  of  late,  in  our  town  and  the  towns  adjoining.  My 
youngest  brother,  George,  accidentally  left  the  door  un 
locked,  and  the  deacon's  best  horse  was  stolen. 

The  first  time  Thomas  and  myself  were  absent,  the 
deacon  took  him  down  cellar,  and  beat  him  in  a  most  hor 
rible  manner.  I  returned,  soon  after,  and  found  Mrs. 
Stewart  in  tears.  I  asked  the  cause.  She  led  me  to 


THE  MARRIAGE  AND  ITS  RESULTS.  125 

George,  who  lay  groaning  in  his  bed.  When  I  looked  at 
his  bleeding  back,  I  swore  revenge.  Mrs.  Stewart  begged 
me  to  desist,  but  I  would  not  listen.  I  armed  myself 
with  a  cowhide,  and  rushed  into  the  room  where  the  dea 
con  was  sitting  with  my  mother,  explaining  to  her  .the 
necessity  of  what  he  called  a  severe  chastisement.  I  gave 
him  blow  after  blow,  in  rapid  succession,  until  I  felled  him 
to  the  floor.  My  mother  screamed,  and  in  rushed  Job 
and  Hannah.  "  Assassin  !  "  said  Job,  and  he  and  Han 
nah  collared  me,  and  attempted  to  take  the  cowhide  from 
me.  I  struck  Job  with  it  in  such  a  manner  that  he  was 
glad  to  let  go  his  hold.  They  both  left  the  room  in  ter 
ror,  as  if  they  thought  me  mad,  and  it  was  dangerous  to 
remain  in  my  presence.  I  was  horror-struck  at  what  I 
had  done,  and  I  caught  my  hat  and  fled.  I  met  Mrs. 
Stewart  as  I  rushed  from  the  house,  who  inquired,  in  a 
tone  of  agony,  what,  was  the  matter.  I  did  not  answer, 
but  ran  for  dear  life,  without  slackening  my  pace,  until  I 
had  gone  more  than  a  mile,  when  I  sank  down,  from  sheer 
exhaustion.  • 

As  I  lay  upon  the  ground,  I  had  ample  time  for  reflec 
tion.  Not  very  pleasant  thoughts  thronged  my  mind. 
What  if  I  had  killed  Deacon  Webber  ?  How  horrible  it 
would  be  to  die  for  such  a  scoundrel !  Then  I  thought  it 
could  not  be  possible  that  I  had  killed  him.  I  hoped  not, 
at  least.  What  would  be  the  result  of  this,  if  he  lived  ? 
What  would  they  do  to  me  ?  I  fancied  I  did  not  care 


126  THE   MARRIAGE   AND    ITS   RESULTS. 

much.  The  deacon  needed  a  lesson  long  ago,  and  he  had 
received  it  at  last.  Mr.  Edgarton  would  say  now  that  I 
had  settled  that  "long  bill." 

But  what  should  I  do,  under  such  unfortunate  circum 
stances  ?  I  must  not  return  home, —  that  I  decided  at 
once ;  and  yet  it  was  almost  night.  I  resolved  to  go  to 
my  uncle's  immediately,  as  quickly  as  my  feet  would 
carry  me  there.  Night  soon  came  on,  and  often  was  I 
obliged  to  stop  and  inquire  my  way.  It  was  very  dark, 
and  twice  I  mistook  the  road,  and  went  some  distance  in 
a  wrong  direction.  It  seemed  cruel  to  be  obliged  to 
retrace  my  steps. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  I  reached  my  uncle's  house. 
0  !  how  glad  I  was,  for  I  was  weary,  hungry  and  cold. 
They  were  all  fast  locked  in  the  arms  of  sleep ;  but  I 
quickly  aroused  them.  Greatly  surprised  were  they  to 
see  me  at  that  hour  of  the  night ;  and  more  surprised 
still,  when  they  learned  that  I  had  come  on  foot  and 
alone.  After  partaking  of  a  substantial  supper,  I  told 
them  my  story.  They  rather  blamed  me,  and  Helen  chided 
not  a  little.  True,  they  were  shocked  at  the  horrid 
brutality  of  the  deacon ;  but  they  would  not  justify  me 
for  being  brutal  also.  It  was  decided  that  I  must  not 
return  home, —  at  least,  for  the  present. 


CHAPTER    X. 

NEWS  FROM  HOME. 

AFTER  I  had  been  at  my  uncle's  two  weeks,  and  not 
hearing  a  word  from  home,  I  wrote  to  Jane  ;  and  received 
the  following  letter  in  reply  : 

"  0,  Henri !  how  glad  I  was  to  hear  from  you  !  We 
' c  were  very  anxious  on  your  account ;  for  we  knew  not 
"  what  had  become  of  you,  but  were  in  hopes  you  had 
"  gone  to  uncle's.  How  glad  I  am  that  you  have  a  place 
"  to  flee  to,  where  you  can  find  a  good  home ;  for  you 
"  cannot  return 'here  again  !  Why  did  mother  ever  marry 
11  that  terrible  man  ?  I  will  answer  your  inquiries  as  well 
"  as  I  am  able. 

"The  deacon's  head  was  badly  hurt;  but  he  revived  in 
"  a  few  minutes  after  you  left,  and  rushed  out  in  search 
"  of  you,  looking  like  a  wild  maniac.  He  said  that  he 
"  would  have  your  heart's  blood,  and  send  your  black 
"soul  shrieking  down  to  hell!  It  was  terrible  to  see 
"  him  rave.  Mother  tried  to  pacify  Jiim  ;  but  he  thrust 
"  her  from  him  with  great  violence,  while  his  eyes  shot 
"  gleams  of  bitter  hatred.  When  he  found  that  you  had 


128  NEWS  FROM   HOME. 

"  fled  beyond  his  reach,  he  raved  still  more.  I  will  not 
"  repeat  his  horrible  words,  for  the  thought  of  them 
"  makes  me  sick.  At  last  he  sank  down  exhausted,  and 
"  mother  washed  and  dressed  his  head,  all  of  the  time 
"  weeping  bitterly.  George  is>getting  well  fast.  He  was 
"  most  shamefully  whipped.  In  his  sleep  he  often  lives 
<{  over  again  that  fearful  scene  in  the  cellar.  First  he 
"prays  for  mercy;  then  curses  his  tormentor,  and 
"  threatens  terrible  vengeance.  Your  suggestion,  that 
"  our  damnation  would  be  the  result  of  this  marriage,  has 
"  proved  true;  for  it  has  been,  so  far,  and  the  future  is 
li  all  dark.  I  shudder  to  think  what  kind  of  dispositions 
"  we  shall  have,  if  this  state  of  things  continues.  I  won- 
"  der  not  that  you  thought  of  vengeance,  when  you  looked 
"  upon  the  many  wounds  and  bruises  of  your  poor 
"  brother ;  and  yet  I  cannot  justify  you  in  taking  suck 
11  vengeance.  0,  Henri !  it  is  horrible  !  Only  think, 
11  your  mother's  husband  ! 

"  Job  was  not  much  hurt,  but  considerably  frightened. 
"  What  strength  you  have  when  angry,  and  what  a 
"  temper  you  have  !  You  are  too  passionate.  You  must 
"  learn  to  govern  your  temper,  and  curb  your  passions, 
t:  or  you  will  some  day  rush  headlong  to  destruction. 
"  Begin  now,  dear  brother  ;  —  now,  before  it  is  too  late  ! 

"  The  tumult  had  subsided  when  Thomas  returned. 
"  He  was  greatly  excited  when  told  what  had  taken  place. 
"  He  said  that  hanging  would  be  too  good  for  the  deacon; 


NEWS   FROM   HOME.  129 

"for  no  punishment  was  bad  enough  for  such  a  brutal 
"  wretch  ! 

"If  George  had  purposely  left  the  door  open  or  un- 
"  locked,  it  would  have  been  different.  I  fear  that  boys 
"  often  buffer  severely  for  doing  what  every  one  is  liable 
"to  do.  George  turned  the  key,  he  says,  and  thought 
11  the  door  was  locked ;  and  most  likely  it  was,  for  a  false 
"key  might  have  been  used.  The  deacon  was  deterred 
"  from  sending  an  officer  after  you  by  the'  threats  of 
"  Thomas ;  who  told  him  that  if  he  moved  an  inch  in  the 
"  matter,  he  would  bring  the  whole  subject  before  the 
"  church,  and  also  make  him  feel  the  full  force  of  the 
"  law  for  his  abuse  of  George.  He  is  a  miserable  coward, 
"  and  fears  the  loss  of  his  rep'utation  for  piety  and  godli- 
"  ness  !  I  don't  think  that  he  would  feel  his  soul  at  all 
"  safe  out  of  the  church.  They  say  he  talked  beautifully 
"last  night  at  the  pray er- meeting ;  and  I  suppose  he 
"might  have  said  .some  good  things,  for  it  is  not  a  very 
"  difficult  matter.  The  devil,  it  is  said,  can  change  him- 
"  self  into  an  angel  of  light.  The  deacon  has  been  a 
"  hypocrite  so  long,  that  he  truly -thinks  himself  a  good 
"  man,  and  one  of  the  elect.  I  do  not  wish  that  he  should 
"  be  cast  into  the  pit ;  but,  in  spite  of  my  peculiar  views, 
"I  sometimes  think  it  a  fitting  place  for  him.  Wicked, 
"  am  I  not  1  Such  thoughts  do  not  stay  long  in  my.head, 
"  and  my  heart  always  rejects  them. 

"  Mrs.  Stewart  sends  her  love  to  her  dear  Henri,  and 


130  NEWS  FROM   HOME. 

"hopes  he  will  become  a  better  boy,  and  not  allow  his 
"  passions  to  rage  so  fearfully.  She  says  that  you  have 
"  one  of  the  best  of  hearts;  but  your  passions  are  so  vio- 
"  lent  that  one  can  hardly  feel  safe  in  your  presence ! 
"  She  hopes  that  you  will  never  return  here  again  ;  at 
"  least,  while  Deacon  Webber  lives ;  for  she  is  fearful  that 
"  blood  would  be  shed,  should  you  meet  again.  I  tell 
"  her  that  some  blood  was  shed  when  you  last  met.  Mrs. 
"  Stewart  would  leave  here  now,  I  think,  if  it  were  not 
"  for  little  Katy.  She  is  rather  imaginative,  and  she 
"  will  have  it  that  Katy  looks  like  her  lost  Lelia.  She 
"is  always  talking  of  Lelia  and  you.  Poor  woman, —  I 
"  pity  her  ! 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  Eatons 
"  and  Webbers  detest  each  other  more  than  ever  now. 
"  The  pious  Hezekiah  and  Hannah  are  getting  to  be 
"  more  pious  and  more  wicked.  Chips  of  the  old  block  ! 
"  you  would  say.  0,  what  a  beautiful  life  we  lead  ! 
"  The  deacon  makes  longer  prayers  than  ever,  and  says 
"  grace  at  every  meal !  If  he  should  go  to  that  wicked 
"  place, —  to  which  you,  of  course,  are  doomed, —  I  think 
"  he  would  say  his  prayers  even  there. 

"  I  want  to  see  Helen  Means  very  much.  I  can 
"  realize  now  how  fearfully  she  must  have  suffered  ;  and 
"  I  thank  you,  from  my  heart,  for  rescuing  her  from  the 
"  monster  who  held  her  in  his  grasp.  That  was  a  noble 
"deed,  and  Heaven  will  bless  you  for  it. 


NEWS  FROM   HOME.  131 

"  Mr.  Edgarton  has"  been  to  see  the  deacon ;  and  he 
"  says  that  he  gave  him  a  piece  of  his  mind,  and  told 
"  him  not  to  strike  an  Eaton  again.  '  That  Henri,'  said 
"he,  '  is  the  spunkiest  little  chap  that  I  ever  laid  my 
11  eyes  on  !  Why,  the  little  rascal  said  that  he  meant  to 
"  settle  the  deacon's  long  bill  to  his  own  satisfaction ;  ha  ! 
"  ha,  ha  !  and,  by  hokie,  he 's  done  it ! '  But  my  sheet 

"  is  full.     Good-by.  JANE/' 

i 

My  dear,  good  sister  !  how  I  thanked  her  for  this  letter ! 
I  will  try  to  reform  my  habits,  for  your  sake,  thought  I ; 
and  for  the  sake  of  all  the  dear  ones  who  love  me  ! 

I  was  better  satisfied  with  the  contents  of  the  letter  than 
I  expected  to  be.  They  were  certainly  bad  enough,  but 
I  was  thankful  they  were  no  worse.  I  resolved  to  remain 
where  I  was  for  the  present.  My  uncle  and  aunt  were 
very  obliging  and  kind  ;  they  could  not  have  been  more 
faithful  in  their  care  and  attention  to  a  dear  child  than 
they  were  to  me.  They  delighted  to  do  good,  and  make 
everybody  around  them  happy.  As  for  Helen,  she  was 
becoming  every  day  more  interesting.  We  attended  the 
same  school,  and  at  home  pursued  our  studies  in  company. 
And  thus  the^cold  days  of  winter  passed  pleasantly  and 
Vapidly  away. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

AN   OLD   ENEMY. 

WHEN  spring  came,  Helen  and  I  often  rambled  in  the 
fields  gathering  flowers,  and  when  weary  resting  under 
some  beautiful  shady  tree.  I  never  had  been  so  happy 
before.  I  was  with  those  who  loved  me,  and  whom  I 
loved,  in  return,  with  all  the  warm  ardor  "of  my  impetuous 
nature.  I  did  not  live  now  in  the  midst  of  jarring  dis 
cords,  but  of  beautiful  harmony.  I  should  have  been 
quite  happy,  if  it  had  not  been  for  thoughts  of  home  and 
the  past.  I  knew  that,  while  I  was  so  richly  blest,  my 
brothers  and  sisters  were  miserable. 

One  summer  evening,  after  a  heavy  thunder-shower, 
Helen  and  I  were  taking  one  of  our  accustomed  rambles, 
delighted  with  the  thousand  beautiful  things  which'  greeted 
us  on  every  hand.  It  had  not  rained  for  many  days 
before,  and  the  earth  was  dry  and  parched  with  heat,  the 
trees  were  dusty,  and  the  air  oppressive.  After* two  hours' 
rain,  what  a  change  !  The  air  was  sweet  and  fresh,  the 
leaves  and  grass  clean  and  beautiful.  The  little  rivulets, 
which  had  almost  dried  up,  leaped  forth  again,  seeking 
their  old  haunts  among  the  flowers,  laughing  and  singing 


AN   OLD   ENEMY.  133 

as  they  went  on  their  way.  All  nature  looked  refreshed 
and  joyous,  and  the  birds  sang  most  sweetly  their  evening 
songs. 

As  we  were  walking  along,  drinEing  in  the  harmony 
and  beauty  so  lavishly  spread  around  us,  we  unexpect 
edly  encountered  the  villain  from  whom  I  rescued  Helen 
the  first  time  I  ever  saw  her.  His  looks  showed  that  he 
had  continued  the  downward  course  of  sin ;  for  his  ap 
pearance  was  repulsive,  and  his  whole  aspect  forbidding. 

"  Ha  !  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Eaton  !  "  he  said.  "  Glad 
to  see  you,  boy.  We  have  an  account  to  settle,  and 

'  Now  's  the  day,  and  now 's  the  hour.' 

Come,  my  young  gentleman,  you  may  get  ready  for  such 
a licking  as  you  never  had  before  !  " 

I  expostulated,  and  Helen  begged  of  him  to  go  peace 
fully  away,  and  allow  us  to  do  the  same.  He  gave  a 
coarse  laugh, —  said  that  she  was  a  beauty,  and  he  liked 
her,  and  then  made  a  most  insulting,  and  brutal  proposal, 
as  the  only  condition  of  my  escape.  This  threw  me  into 
a  violent  passion,  and  my  blood  was  up  in  a  moment. 

"You  vile  wretch,  begone!"  I  cried,  "or  you  will 
fare  worse  than  you  did  before." 

"  I  know  it,"   he  said,  and  he  gave  another  brutal 

laugh,  and  sprang  at  me  with  tiger-like  ferocity.     After 

I  had  received  one  or  two  blows,  and  struck  him  as  many, 

by  a  lucky  hit  I  laid  him  at  my  feet.     He  arose  quickly, 

12 


134  AN   OLD   ENEMY. 

somewhat  weakened,  and  came  at  me  once  more,  when  I 
again  knocked  him  down  and  sprang  upon  him ;  but,  as 
he  promised  better  fashions,  ~I  desisted,  and  he  arose  and 
hastened  away,  frequently  looking  back,  as  though  he 
was  strongly  inclined  to  try  his  hand  once  more. 

I  now  turned  to  Helen,  and  she  was  deathly  pale,  and 
she  gladly  leaned  on  me  for  support.  This  was  a  diver 
sion  which  we  had  not  looked  for,  and  which  seemed  not 
exactly  appropriate  for  the  occasion.  It  interrupted  a 
very  pleasant  train  of  thought  and  conversation, —  sev 
ered  a  golden  chain,  which  could  not  then  well  be 
reunited ;  so  we  turned  our  course  towards  home. 

"You  tremble,  Helen,"  said  I,  "but  you  need  not 
fear." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  killed.  Are  you  not 
badly  hurt?" 

"  Not  very, —  just  a  little  bruised,  that's  all." 

"  I  hope  we  shall  never  see  him  again.  How  brutal  he 
is!  " 

"  He  seems  to  be  perfectly  abandoned." 

"  How  strange  that  he  should  act  so  ! " 

"I  did  not  know  but  that  I  should  require  your  help, 
as  of  yore." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not." 

"Why  so?  Would  it  hurt  your  feelings  to  take  a 
stone  and  pound  his  head?  " 


AN    OLD    ENEMY.  135 

"  Yes,  very  much.  I  don't  think  that  I  should  have 
hurt  him  much." 

"I  suppose  not;  but  you  hit  him  hard,  the  other 
time." 

"  I  know  I  did  ;  but  it  would  be  more  difficult  now." 

"  Well,  Helen,  I  am' glad  it  is  so.  I  am  sorry  thatJE 
was  obliged  to  strike  him  with  such  fury,  but  he  would 
have  it  so.  He  won't  care  about  another  fight  with  me." 

"  But  he  may  seek  some  means  to  be  revenged  upon 
you." 

"  I  hope  not,  for  I  do  not  wish  him  harm." 

In  due  time  we  arrived  at  hoine ;  when  it  was  found, 
on  examination,  that  I  had  some  superfluous  bumps,  but 
the  skin  was  not  broken,  and  I  was  not  much  injured. 

We  saw  our  foe  after  that  under  different  circum 
stances,  and  learned  his  name  and  history.  He  was  the 
only  child  of  a  Mr.  Austin, —  of  whom  the  reader  will 
learn  more,  by  and  by.  At  the  time  we  saw  him,  he  was 
in  prison,  awaiting  his  trial  for  highway  robbery  and 
murder.  He  was  convicted  and  executed.  We  visited  him 
before  and  after  his  conviction,  and  then  my  enmity  had 
ceased,  and  we  did  all  that  was  in  our  power  to  smooth  his 
pathway  to  the  grave.  He  was  melted  by  our  kindness, 
and  wished  us  to  pardon  him.  When  I  told  him  that 
Helen  was  the  little  ragged  girl  who  oi.ce  lived  with 
Deacon  Webber,  and  whom  I  delivered  out  of  his  hands, 
he  was  greatly  astonished.  When  we  last  saw  him  he 


136  AN   OLD  ENEMY. 

looked  very  miserable,  but  said  that  he  felt  resigned  to 
his  fate,  and  trusted  in  the  mercy  of  God.  He  was 
weeping  when  we  bade  him  a  final  farewell,  and  clung  to 
our  hands,  as  though  we  had  the  power  to  save  him.  My 
interviews  with  him  had  a  beneficial  influence  upon  me, 
and  I  resolved  to  curb  my  passions,  and  keep  them  in 
their  place. 

During  this  time,  I  frequently  received  letters  from 
home,  and  things  went  on  pretty  much  as  they  did  before 

I  left  it.    I  will  not  pain  the  reader  by  relating  the  scenes 
which  there  transpired,  but  will  close  this  chapter  with  a 
letter  from  brother  Thomas.     If  there  are  expressions  in 

' Jane's  or  Thomas'  letters  which  manifest  a  bad  spirit, 
let  the  reader  remember  the  circumstances  by  which  they 
were  surrounded.  Circumstances .  will  account  for  a 
lack  of  parental  respect,  and  unchristian  thought  and 
allusions. 

"  I  have  a  little  bit  of  news  for  you,  Henri,  which,  I 
"  think,  will  remind  you  of  old  times,  and  please  you  into 
"  the  bargain.  You  know  that  we  children  formed  the 
"determination  not  to  be  drudges  to  the  deacon,  and  I 
"  made  bold  to  tell  him  so.  Some -two  months  since,  he 

II  brought  home  a  little  girl,  whom  he  took  from  the  poor- 
"  house  in  a  neighboring  town.     She  looked  bad  enough, 
"  when  she  came  ;  but  the  saintly  deacon  must  make  her 
"  look  worse,  if  possible.     Mrs.  Stewart  was  sadly  in  his 


AN  OLD   ENEMY.  137 

"  way  ;  for  she  would  be  feeding  and  clothing  her,  making 
"  her  garments  out  of  her  old  ones,  and  always  keeping 
"  her  looking  tidy  and  decent.  What  a  kind  and  chari- 
"  table  woman  she  is, —  always  doing  good  !  Mrs.  Stew- 
"  art's  care  did  not  save  the  poor  child  from  cruel  abuse. 
"  If  she  did  anything  wrong,  or  the  deacon  imagined  she 
"  had  done  wrong  (and^  his  imagination  in  that  line  is 
"  remarkably  powerful),  a  brutal  whipping  was  sure  to 
"  follow.  Mother  thought  the  whippings  were  too  severe, 
"  but  he  told  her  they  were  vitally  requisite  to  the 
"child's  welfare.  The  fact  is,  he  must  have  something 
"  to  beat  and  mangle, —  it  is  his  nature,  as  much  so  as  it 
"  is  the  nature  of  the  wolf  to  bite.  We  determined, 
"  however,  that  this  should  not  last  long.  The  deacon 
"  liked  it  too  well,  and  we  knew  what  was  sport  to 
"  him  was  death  to  the  child.  A  most  brutal  exhibition 
"of  his  diabolical  passion  and  cruelty  decided  us  to  put 
"  our  plan  into  execution  at  once.  Mary  Flinn  is  awk- 
"  ward  and  clumsy.  She  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  with 
\  "  a  waiter  of  crockery,  proving  herself  a  decided  piece- 
]  "  maker, — but  one  who  did  not  receive  a  blessing  to  be 
"coveted.  The  deacon  was  in  the  house  at  the  time; 
<{  and  when  he  saw  the  broken  dishes,  he  beat  her  fear- 
"  fully.  He  cut  and  bruised  her  most  shamefully.  Mrs. 
"  Stewart,  Jane  and  Lizzy,  begged  of  him  to  stop;  but  it 
"  only  inflamed  the  passions  of  this  fiend  still  more. 
"  Mother  interfered,  at  last,  and  saved  the  poor  thing 
12* 


138  AN   OLD  ENEMY. 

"  from  further  outrage.  If  I  had  been  there,  I  know  not 
"  what  I  should  have  done.  It  was  well  for  the  deacon 
"  that  you  were  not  present.  Would  n't  there  haye  been 
"  an  uproar? 

"  I  had  corresponded  with  a  friend  who  was  in  search 
"of  a  little  girl,  and  I  wrote  him  in  relation  to  the 

I  'late  horrible  affair,  requesting  him  to  meet  me  at  a 

II  given  time  and  place,  and  take  Mary  home  with  him. 
"  She  is  now  twenty-five  miles  from  here,  and  has  a  good 
"  home.     What  a  time  we  had,  when  the  deacon  learned 
"  that  she  was  gone  !     His  rage  was  beautiful.     It  would 
"  have  done  you  good  to  have  seen  him.     He  threatened 
11  to  turn  us  all  out  of  doors ;  but  the  old  interloper  can't 
"  do  it,  and  he  knows  it. 

"  I  am  happy  to  inform  you  that  Hannah  Webber  is 
"  married.  Hezekiah  is  to  be  married  soon,  and  is  to 
"live  on  the  old  place.  It  would  please  me  better  if  he 
"  would  remove  to  his  '  own  place?  Jane  is  engaged  to 
"  a  gentleman  every  way  worthy  of  her.  Mother's 
"health  is  very  poor, —  she  looks  pale  and  miserable. 
"  She  stands  in  great  fear  of  her  charming  husband,  and 
"I  really  believe  despises  him.  Good!  good!  —  don't 
"  you  say  so?  I  suppose  my  letter  is  sufficiently  long  ; 
"  so,  good-by.  When  the  deacon  is  dead  I  will  give  you 
"  an  invitation  to  come  —  home. 

"  THOMAS  EATON." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WELCOME   VISITORS. — MRS.   STEWART'S  STORT. 

Two  years  passed  away,  and  I*had  not  seen  any  of  the 
members  of  our  family,  excepting  my  brothers.  One 
.  summer  afternoon,  the  stage  stopped  at  the  door  of  my 
uncle's,  when  out  jumped  Mrs.  .Stewart  and  my  sister 
Jane.  0,  how  glad  I  was  to  see  them !  I  rushed  into 
their  arms,  and  kissed  them  again  and  again,  with 'passion 
ate  delight.  The  joy  seemed  mutual.  They  expressed 
surprise  in  seeing  me  look  so  healthy,  and  remarked  that 
I  had  grown  very  large  and  handsome.  This  flattery,  or 
praise,  sounded  pleasantly  enough  in  my  ears  j  for,  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  confess  it,  that  I  ever  had  a  strong  desire 
for  true  manly  beauty.  It  is  fashionable,  I  know,  in  the 
pulpit  and  out  of  it,  to  preach  about  the  vanity  of  such 
things ;  and  yet  the  preachers  —  both  pulpit  and  lay  — 
are  as  well  pleased  with  the  flattering  words,  which  some-, 
times  greet  their  ears,  as  the  bright-eyed  blooming  girl, 
whom  everybody  styles  the  beauty  of  her  native  village. 

Mrs.  Stewart  looked  more  careworn  than  I  had  ever 
seen  her  before,  while  sister  Jane  had  grown  more  inter 
esting  ;  but  over  her  face  passed  frequently  an  expression 


140    WELCOME   VISITORS. —  MRS.    STEWART'S   STORY. 

of  sadness,  reminding  one  of  a  spring  day,  when  the 
clouds  ever  and  anon  pass^  over  the  face  of  the  sun,  hiding 
its  beaming  smiles,  which  make  the  world  look  so  glad 
and  golden.  But,  nevertheless,  her  appearance  was 
decidedly  interesting.  You  could  read  in  her  aspect  the 
dear,  good-hearted  girl,  whose  presence  would  always 
cause  more  sunshine  than  shadow. 

Helen  was  absent  wUen  they  arrived;  she  came  home 
soon  after,  and  I  was  proud  to  introduce  her  as  the  6*ne  I 
had  rescued  from  Deacon  Webber's  tyranny.  Mrs.  Stew 
art  started  when  she  took  her  hand  and  gazed  into  her 
beautiful  face,  which  at  that  moment  brightened  with 
child-like  reverence  and  admiration.  I  washed  myself  in 
their  places,  when  she  and  Jane  pressed  her  to  their 
hearts,  and  imprinted  warm  kisses  upon  her  red  lips.  A 
strong  friendship  immediately  sprang  up  between  the 
parties,  which  was  a  source  of  happiness  to  us  all.  I  felt 
proud  of  my  sister,  who  was  a  number  of  years  Helen's 
senior,  when  I  saw  how  well  they  loved  each  other. 
Many  pleasant  rambles  did  we  enjoy  during  their  fort 
night's  "visit,  and  the  time  passed  rapidly  and  pleasantly 
away. 

They  gave  us  a  history  of  home  affairs,  which  had 
undergone  no  improvement  since  I  left.  It  was  interest 
ing,  but  sad.  Little  Katy  was  still  the  same  dear,  affec 
tionate  creature,  though  her  father  had  used  every  means 
in  his  power  to  spoil  her.  His  treatment  of  her  had  been 


WELCOME  VISITORS. —  MRS.    STEWART'S  STORY.    141 

such  that  there  was  no  living  being  she  feared  so  much. 
He  frequently  commanded  her  to  bring  something  to  him, 
—  some  article  which  he  might  or  might  not  want.  She 
would  have  obeyed  him  with  alacrity,  if  she  had  not  been 
afraid  of  him  :  and  because  she  did  not,  he  would  whip  her, 
and  make  her  still  more  fearful.  She  must  be  trained,  he 
said,  and  disciplined  while  young,  or  she  would  be  ruined 
for  this  world  and  for  the  next.  When  abused  by  her 
father,  she  would  ever  fly  to  Mrs.  Stewart,  from  whom 
she  received  so  much  sympathy  and  kindness  jthat  the 
evil  effect  of  her  father's  brutal  treatment  was,  in  a 
measure,  neutralized. 

Finally,  the  deacon,  after  correcting  her,  would  shut 
her  up,  lest  she  should  run  to  Mrs.  Stewart,  and  the  good 
effects  of  her  chastisement  be  destroyed. 

"  Poor  little  Katy  !  "  said  Jane ;  "  doomed  to  be  brut 
alized  or  die.  Such  abuse  is  too  much  for  a  sensitive, 
gentle  creature,  like  her." 

This  brutality,  to  an  affectionate  little  child,  was 
almost  enough  to  break  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Stewart.  The 
deacon  thought  it  best  not  to  interfere  with  my  brothers 
and  sisters  in  any  other  way  than  by  fretting  and  scold 
ing.  My  mother,  who  brought  the  great  evil  upon  her 
self  and  children,  was  every  day  becoming  more  sickly 
and  sad.  She  wished,  by  this  time, —  so  thought  Mrs. 
Stewart, —  that  she  had  hearkened  to  their  warnings.  I 


142     WELCOME  VISITORS. —  MRS.    STEWART'S  STORY. 

felt,  as  I  listened,  that  she  was  to  be  pitied,  doomed  to 
spend  her  life  with  such  a  detestable  wretch. 

Uncle  took  his  carriage,  and  carried  Mrs.  Stewart  and 
sister  Jane  home,  and  when  he  returned  George  and 
Charlotte  came  with  him.  While  they  were  with  us,  we 
received  a  letter  from  Jane,  stating  that  Deacon  Webber 
had  talked  so  insultingly  to  Mrs.  Stewart,  that  she  had 
left  the  house,  and  was  boarding  in  the  neighborhood. 
Uncle  and  aunt,  very  much  to  my  satisfaction,  resolved 
to  offer  her  a  home.  He  returned  with  George  and 
Charlotte,  and  brought  back  Mrs.  Stewart.  She  was 
affected  to  tears  at  her  whole-hearted  reception. 

"  Here,"  said  my  aunt,  "you  shall  have  a  home  as 
long  as  you  live ;  and  we  will  all  try  to  make  it  a  happy 
home."  % 

"  It  is  a  happy  home,"  said  Helen,  "  always  pleasant, 
always  joyful." 

"  A  paradise,"  I  observed. 

( '  With  at  least  one  angel  in  it,  in  your  estimation," 
remarked  my  uncle. 

"  And  two,  in  yours,"  I  replied. 

"  Mrs.  Stewart  ought  to  be  satisfied,"  said  my  aunt, 
"  if  your  description  is  true.  A  happy,  pleasant,  joyful 
home, —  a  paradise  with  angels." 

"  I  thank  you  all,"  she  replied.  "  If  poor  little  Katy 
were  here,  I  should  be  very  happy." 


WELCOME  VISITORS. —  MRS.   STEWART'S  STORY.     143 

"Why  did  the  old  rascal  turn  you  out  of  doors  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

"  Do  not  speak  in  that  manner,  Henri,"  said  Mrs. 
Stewart.  "  It  is  wrong,' even  about  your  enemies." 

"  It  is  no  more  than  the  truth,"  I  replied. 

"  But  the  truth  is  not  to  be  spoken  at  all  times," 
observed  my  uncle. 

"Very  true,"  replied  Mrs.  Stewart.  "  The  deacon  is 
the  worst  man  I  ever  knew ;  but  it  is  not  well  to  call  hard 
names.  He  was  whipping  Katy  in  an  unmerciful  man 
ner,  for  a  most  trivial  offence.  I  looked  on  until  I  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  when  I  snatched  her  up  in  my  arms 
and  ran  to  my  room,  shut  the  door,  and  locked  it.  The 
deacon  followed,  and  threatened  to  burst  it  open,  if  I  did 
not  unfasten  it.  ^After  some  parleying,  I  unlocked  it,  and 
he  walked  in.  Little  Katy  clung  to  me,  and  he  did  not 
offer  to  touch  her,  but  heaped  upon  me  abuse  without 
measure,  and  ended  by  informing  me  that  my  room  in 
the  house  was  more  desirable  than  my  company.  Know 
ing  that  Jane  would  befriend  Katy  as  much  as  I  could,  I 
immediately  left  and  went  to  one  of  the  neighbors,  where  I 
remained  until  Mr.  Eaton  came  after  me. 

"  Poor  little  Katy !  she  will  not  trouble  them  many 
years.  She  is  a  delicate,  sensitive  child,  and  with  such 
usage  as  she  receives  she  cannot  live  long.  How  strange 
that  a  man  should  so  abuse  his  own  child  !  " 

"  Not  very  strange,"  I  remarked ;  "for  persons  like 


144     WELCOME   VISITORS. —  MRS.    STEWART'S  STORY. 

him  must  have  somebody's  child  to  abuse;  and,  as  he  is  so 
very  unfortunate  in  relation  to  those  who  are  not  his  own, 
as  a  matter  of  course  he  must  expend  his  cruelty  upon 
his  own  children."  * 

"I  think  he  would  like  her  better,  if  she  had  more  of 
the  Webber  in  her,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart.  "  She  is  entirely 
different  from  his. other  children.  They  are  rough,  hard 
hearted,  brutal ;  but  she  is  gentle  and  affectionate.  I 
often  held  her  to  my  heart,  and  thought  of  my  lost  Lelia. 
0  !  if  the  deacon  would  give  her  to  me,  to  be  all  my  own, 
the  deep  yearning  in  my  heart  for  the  lost  one  would  be 
in  a  measure  satisfied.  But  that  wound,  I  fear,  will  not 
be  healed  until  I  am  laid  in  my  grave."  Mrs.  Stewart 
was  here  so  overcome  by  her  strong  emotion  that  she 
burst  into  tears.  '"Let  the  thought  console  you,"  said 
my  aunt,  "  that  you  will  meet  the  dear  child  in  heaven." 

"It  does  console  me,"  she  replied,  "and  I  thank  my 
God  for  the  glorious  hope."  We  all  responded  amen, 
and  Mrs.  Stewart's  face  beamed  with  the  smile  of  recon 
ciliation. 

A  brief  period  now  passed  away,  and  not  a  word  was 
spoken.  I  was  the  first  to  break  silence.  "  You  made 
me  a  promise,  long  ago,"  I  said,  "to  tell  me  the  story 
of  your  husband  and  Lelia' s  death.  Uncle,  aunt  and 
Helen,  would  all  be  glad  to  hear  it ;  and,  if  it  would  not 
be  asking  too  much,  I  wish  you  would-  tell  it  now." 

"Not  now,  Henri,"  said  my  uncle.      "You  are  not 


WELCOME   VISITORS. —  MRS.   STEWART'S  STORY.  145 

considerate  at  all.  Better  postpone  it,  Mrs.  Stewart,  and 
not  harrow  up  your  feelings  again  at  present." 

"It  is  a  painful  story,"  said  Mrs  Stewart,  "and  really 
frightful.  It  is  true  tha?  I  have  promised  to  tell  it  to 
Henri;  and  I  would  rather  do  it  now,  than  to  put  it  off 
any  longer.  When  you  have  heard  it,  you  will  not  be 
surprised  that  I  sometimes  weep." 

She  now  sat  some  minutes,  as  if  in  deep  thought,  her 
head  upon  her  hand,  while  we  kept  perfect  silence.  In 
due  time,  she  began  her  startling  narrative : 

"  When  I  was  twenty  years  old,  I  married  Mr.  Stewart, 
the  man  of  my  choice, —  the  only  one  I  ever  loved.  I 
was  not  disappointed  in  him  ;  for  he  loved  me  faithfully, 
and  so  our  home  was  happy,  though  humble.  We  both 
endeavored  to  do  our  whole  duty,  and  our  reward  was 
peace  and  quiet  happiness.  We  had  but  one  child,  and 
she  was  born  four  years  after  our  marriage.  0  !  what  a 
sweet  little  girl  she  was,  with  the  softest  flaxen  hair,  and 
lips  and  cheeks  as  red  as  roses !  How  much  I  loved  that 
gentle  child  ! 

"  How  welcome  was  her  tender  embrace,  and  how  sweet 
the  kiss  which  she  so  often  impressed  upon  my  lips ! 
Sweeter  than  music  was  her  childish  prattle  to  me,  and 
brighter  than  sunshine  her  angel  presence. . 

"  My  first  great  grief  was  when  my  husband  died.  It 
was  a  fearful  blow;  and  I  should  have  been  stricken 
to  the  earth,  if  it  had  not  Been  for  my  angel  child. 
13 


146  WELCOME  VISITOR — MRS.    STEWART'S  STORY. 

She  was  now  my  support,  and  more  dear  than  ever. 
Alas !  I  was  doomed  to  lose  her,  and  in  a  way  overwhelm 
ingly  crushing  to  a  mother's  heart.  Mr.  Stewart  had 
been  dead  but  three  months,  wten  Lelia  was  lost  to  me 
forever  in  this  world.  I  sent  her  to  a  neighbor's,  on  an 
errand,  and  she  never  returned.  The  alarm  was  quickly 
given,  and,  though  the  whole  neighborhood  was  aroused, 
and  the  woods  searched  over  and  over  again,  still,  she 
could  not  be  found,  and  not  a  trace  of  her  was  discovered. 
My  God !  what  were  my  feelings  when  I  knew  that  I 
must  give  up  all  hope  !  I  prayed  for  death.  In  my  ter 
rible  anguish,  I  felt  to  curse  my  Maker,  hoping  that  in 
his  anger  He  might  strike  me  dead  ! 

"  Six  months  had  passed  away,  and  I  had  grown 
calm,  and  felt  willing  to  drink  the  bitter  cup  which  had 
been  prepared  for  me.  On  such  an  evening  as  this,  I  sat 
alone  in  my  little  cottage,  once  so  cheerful,  now  so  dreary 
and  lonely.  As  I  sat  listening  to  the  moan  of  the  winds, 
suddenly  I  saw  the  outlines  of  a  man.  I  knew  that  he 
could  not  have  come  in  at  the  door,  and  I  covered  my 
eyes,  quaking  with  fear.  I  had  no  light  but  that  which 
was  emitted  by  a  few  coals  that  lay  upon  the  hearth. 
When  I  uncovered  my  face,  my  husband  stood  before  me, 
looking  pale  and  sorrowful.  I  trembled  violently,  for  I 
knew  it  was  his  ghost ! 

"  My  blood  ran  cold  in  my  veins.  I  could  not  stir.  J 
seemed  glued  to  the  chair,  and  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  his, 


WELCOME   VISITORS. —  MRS.   STEWART'S  STORY.    147 

and  in  vain  I  tried  to  turn  them  away.  Although  I  was 
greatly  frightened,  I  saw  that  he  looked  as  if  he  wished 
to  make  known  some  important  secret.  He  continued  to 
gaze  upon  me  for  some  moments,  when,  laying  his  'hand 
upon  his  heart,  he  vanished  from  my  sight. 

"After  his  departure,  I  queried  with  myself  whether  I 
had  been  dreaming.  But  I  knew  that  I  had  not  been 
asleep.  I  was  as  wide  awake  as  I  ever  was,  and  I  had 
seen  James  Stewart  as  plainly  as  I  ever  saw  him  in  my 
life.  My  blood  had  almost  frozen  in  my  veins  as  I  looked 
upon  him.  It  could  not  be  a  dream.  I  sat  some  moments 
as  motionless  as  a  statue.  At  last  I  shrieked  and  fainted. 
When  I  came  out  of  my  fainting  fit,  I  was  stiff  and 
cold.  I  arose  and  staggered  to  my  bed,  crawled  in,  and 
soon  fell  asleep.  The  sun  was  high  up  in  the  heavens 
when  I  awoke.  I  arose,  and,  after  taking  some  refresh 
ments,  walked  out  to  reflect  upon  the  fearful  event  of  the 
last  evening. 

"  Directly  to  the  east  of  my  cottage,  hid  behind  a  hill, 
was  the  house  of  Philip  Austin,  a  man  who.  previous  to 
my  acquaintance  with  my  husband,  sought  my  hand  in 
marriage.  I  rejected  his  suit  at  once,  but  he  continued 
to  urge  it  for  a  number  of  months.  When  my  husband 
began  to  visit  me,  and  he  saw  that  I  encouraged  his  atten 
tions,  he  was  furious.  He  cursed  me,  in  the  bitter 
ness  of  his  heart,  and  swore  that  he  would  not  die 
without  revenge.  He  was  married  soon  after  we  were, 


148    WELCOME  VISITORS. —  MRS.    STEWART'S  STORY. 

gp 

and,  I  supposed,  he  had  forgotten  his  oath.  I  had 
noticed  that,  for  some  time  past,  he  had  studiously 
avoided  me.  Only  once  had  he  entered  my  house  since 
my  husband's  death.  When  my  child  was  missing,  no 
one  manifested  so  much  zeal,  seemingly,  in  trying  to 
learn  her  fate,  as  he.  I  could  not  now  keep  him  and  his 
oath  out  of  my  mind.  What  could  it  mean  ?  Had  he 
revenged  himself  by  murdering  my  child  ?  I  now  recol 
lected  that  he  watched  with  Mr.  Stewart  on  the  night  of 
his  death. 

"  I  walked  in  the  direction  of  Austin's  house,  and  soon 
saw  him  coming  towards  me.  When  he  saw  who  I  was, 
he  halted,  as  though  disposed  to  turn  back  ;  then,  as  if 
ashamed  of  his  cowardice,  he  came  boldly  forward,  appar 
ently  as  unconcerned  as  an  innocent  man.  When  we  met, 
I  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face,  as  though  I  would  read 
his  soul.  He  quailed  before  me.  His  shrinking  before 
the  gaze  of  a  timid  woman  emboldened  me,  and  I  said, 

"'  Philip  Austin!  what  have  you  done  with  my 
child  ? ' 

"  What  a  change  came  over  him,  at  these  words  !  His 
dark  eyes  glared  with  fearful  hate,  and  his  face  became 
black  with  fury.  He  foamed  at  the  mouth,  so  great  was 
his  rage. 

" l  By  all  the  powers  of  hell ! '  he  exclaimed,  '  you  shall 
pay  dearly  for  this  damnable  charge !  ' 

"He  sprang  to  the  wall,  and  took  off  a  stone,  as  though 


WEJ00A1E  VISITORS. —  MRS.   STEWART'S  STORY.    149 

he  would  murder  me  on  the  spot.  But  it  suddenly 
dropped  from  his  hands,  and  he  fell  upon  his  knees, 
trembling  with  fear. 

"  '  0  God  ! '  he  cried,  c  all  bloody,  as  when  I  killed  her ! 
Go  away, —  don't  come  near  me !  See  !  there  is  her 
father,  looking  as  pale  as  when  I  gave  him  the  poison  !  ' 

"He  arose,  quaking  in  every  limb,  and  foamed  and 
ground  his  teeth  like  a  madman. 

"  c  Ha,  ha  !  *  he  cried  ;  £  they  are  coming  nearer, —  see 
them !  Look  at  that  head  where  I  beat  it !  She  is 
coming  to  lay  it  against  my  face.  Away  !  Don't  touch 
me  !  "Mercy  !  Good  God  !  Mercy  !  mercy  !  They 
are  gone  now.  I  did  but  dream.  What  did  I  say, 
Laura  ?  I  did  not  mean  it.  I  —  I  was  driven  to  frenzy 
by  your  words ;  but  think  no  more  of  it.  Ha !  they 
are  coming  again  !  Keep  them  .off!  keep  them  off,  for 
God's  sake !  0,  Stewart !  Stewart !  forgive  me.  He 
points  .to  you.  Yes  —  yes  —  I  will !  —  I  will  tell  her 
all!' 

"  He  now  sank  upon  the  ground  from  exhaustion, 
overcome  with  terror.  When  he  had  sufficiently  recov 
ered,  he  told  his  fearful  story.  He  never  allowed  the 
thought  of  revenge  to  escape  from  him  for  a  single 
moment.  As  my  husband  was  dangerously  ill,  he 
thought  it  the  best  time  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  To 
murder  Mr.  Stewart  and  escape  suspicion,  he  proposed  to 
watch  with  him  when  his  recovery  was  considered  doubt- 
13* 


150    WELCOME  VISITORS.  —  MRS.    STEWART'S 


ful.  The  doctor  expected  a  change  before  morning^ 
During  the  night  he  administered  a  deadly  poison. 
Learning  that  I  was  happy  with  my  child,  —  that  she 
was  a  universal  favorite,  —  he  had  decoyed  her  into  the 
woods  and  killed  her,  and  made  her  grave  near  the  spot 
where  he  wrought  the  awful  deed  of  blood.  When  he 
had  finished  his  tale  of  horror,  I  turned  from  him  with 
fearful  loathing  ;  but  he  begged  me  not  to  leave  him. 

"  '  See  !  there  they  come  again  !  '  he  cried.  '  0,  God  ! 
that  bloody  head  !  It  is  coming  close  to  me  !  No,  no  ! 
do  not  touch  me  !  There,  there!  go  away,  child,  —  go 
away,  now  !  Poor  thing  !  will  the  blood  never  stop  ? 
Will  it  always  gush  out  so  ?  Laura  !  my  God  !  No,  no  ! 
God  has  forsaken  me,  long  ago.  Laura  !  do,  do  keep  him 
off!  Don't  you  see  him?  Tell  him  to  go,  —  he  will 
mind  you  !  ' 

"  Thus  he  raved  on,  the  poor  wreteh,  foaming  with 
anguish  the  most  terrible.  Notwithstanding  the  evil  he 
had  wrought  me,  I  pitied  him.  I  accompanied  him 
home,  and  he  immediately  took  his  bed,  —  to  leave  it  but 
once  more.  After  lingering  a  few  days  in  mortal  agony, 
he  died.  0,  how  fearful  it  was  for  him,  and  how  terrible 
it  was  for  me  !  He  told  us,  as  well  as  he  could,  where 
he  had  buried  her  body  ;  but  we  could  never  discover  the 
spot.  But  no  matter,—  she  is  not  there.  0  !  if  — 
if  -  » 

She  was  now  so  overcome  that  she  could  go  no  further  j 


WELCOME  VISITORS. —  MRS.    STEWART'S  STORY.    151 

but  wept,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  agony.  We  all  wept 
in  sympathy,  and  Helen  arose  and  went  to  her,  and 
threw  her  arms,  around  her  neck,  and  said,  while  the 
glittering  drops  rolled  down  her  cheeks, 

"  I  will  be  your  child, —  your  own  dear  child  !  " 

"  Then  you  are  not  to  be  our  child  any  more,"  said  my 
aunt,  a  good  deal  affected. 

Helen  now  left  Mrs.  Stewart,  and  went  to  Aunt 
Eaton,  and,  embracing  her  fondly,  said, 

"  I  will  be  daughter  to  you  both, —  love  you  all,  for 
you  are^ll  so  good." 

"  Spoken  like  my  own  brave  girl !  "  said  Uncle 
Eaton.  "  You  shall  love  Mrs.  Stewart  as  much  as  you 
wish,  and  be  a  daughter  to  her,  and  we  will  not  be  jeal 
ous  of  your  affection.  She  needs  consolation  more  than 
we  do,  for  she  has  lost  all  she  had." 

"And  Henri,"  said  Helen,  "shall  be  your  son,'1 
placing  my  hand  in  Mrs.  Stewart's. 

"  I  am  happy  to  have  you  for  a  mother,"  I  said.  "  I 
have  often  wished  that  you  held  that  endearing  relation 
to  me ;  for  I  have  always  yearned  for  a  mother's  whole 
hearted  love.  I  know  that  you  love  me ;  and  I  will  always 
love  you,  and  try  to  make  you  so  happy  that  you  will  ever 
look  forward  with  hope,  and  not  backward  with  grief." 

"  That 's  right !  "  said  my  aunt ;  "  and,  in  seeking  to 
make  her  happy,  you  will  fill  your  own  cup  with  joy." 

"I  knew  you  would  say  so,"   remarked  my  uncle; 


152    WELCOME  VISITORS. —  MRS.    STEWART'S  STORY. 

1 '  for  you  know  by  experience  —  it  is  the  way  to  be  happy 
in  this  world.  Those  who  are  so  selfish  that  they  never 
wish  to  do  good  to  others,  should  not  expect  to  taste  the 
highest  enjoyment.  Grod  has  so  ordered  that  those  who 
strive,  without  selfishness,  to  help  others,  shall,  at  the 
same  time,  help  themselves." 

Mrs.  Stewart  embraced  us  both,  and  now  shed  tears  of 
joy.  "  God  bless  you,  my  dear  children  !  "  she  said,  fer 
vently;  "and,  with  your  love,  I  will  try  to  forget  the 
anguish  and  sorrows  of  the  past." 

We  spent  the  remainder  of  the  evening  in  pleasant 
and  profitable  conversation ;  and  when  I  retired  to  my 
bed,  that  night,  I  felt  that  I  had  great. reason  to  be  thank 
ful,  in  spite  of  the  thick  gloom  which  had  hitherto 
enshrouded  my  life.  0,  that  there  were  more  faithful 
and  loving  hearts  in  this  beautiful  world  of  ours !  Where 
truth  and  love  dwell  there  is  pure  joy. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE   DEATH   OF   LITTLE   KATY. 

MRS.  STEWART  had  been  with  us  but  a  few  months, 
when  I  received  a  letter  from  sister  Jane,  announcing  the 
death  of  little  Katy.  Here  is  the  letter  : 

| 

"  DEAR  HENRI  :  I  have  sad  news  for  Mrs.  Stewart. 
"  Little  Katy  is  dead  !  The  poor,  dear  thing  always  had 
"  a  sad  look  ;  but,  qjter  Mrs.  Stewart  left  us,  she  seemed 
"  sadder  than  ever.  I  tried  to  comfort  the  little  mourner, 
"  and  cheer  her  drooping  spirits ;  but  all  in  vain.  She 
"  would  nestle  close  to  my  heart,  and  seem  to  feel  safe 
"there;  but,  at  the  same  time,  large  tears  would  roll 
"  down  her  pale  cheeks.  She  never  seemed  like  other 
"  children;  and  how  different  she  was  from  her  brothers 
"  and  sisters  !  She  always  shrank  from  them,  as  if  they 
"  were  her  mortal  enemies.  Her  father's  presence 
"  became  so  insupportable  that  she  almost  went  into  fits 
"  when  she  heard  him  approaching.  Day  after  day  she 
"  grew  sadder  and  weaker ;  and  she  clung  so  closely  to  me 
"  that  I  loved  her  as  though  she  had  been  my  own  sister. 
"  0,  how  affectionate  she  was  !  {  Can  it  be,'  I  thought, 


154  THE   DEATH   OF   LITTLE  KATY. 

"  '  that  she  is  the  child  of  Deacon  Webber  ?  How  unlike 
"  him, —  how  unlike  the  rest  of  the  family  !  '  I  have 
"  since  learned  that  Mrs.  Webber  was  a  kind-hearted  and 
"  affectionate  woman;  but  she  had  very  little  energy,  and 
"  she  stood  in  great  fear  of  her  husband.  The  education 
"which  her  children  received,  the  treatment  of  children 
"  who  lived  there,  broke  her  heart ;  and,  when  death 
"  came,  she  welcomed  it  as  a  messenger  of  mercy, — only 
"regretting  that  she  must  leave  little  Katy  behind,  to  the 
"  tender  mercies  of  her  unfeeling  father.  Well  might 
11  she  regret, —  well  might  she  pray  to  live  !  But  she  felt 
"  that  to  live  would  be  in  vain ;  for  Katy's  mind  and 
"  heart  must  be  moulded  by  other  hands  than  her  own. 
lt  Like  her  other  children,  she  woul^nly  live  to  see  her 
"  warm  affections  chilled,  her  genue  nature  hardened. 
"  Must  an  unregenerate  woman  be  left  to  guide  the  foot- 
11  steps  of  a  child  of  one  of  the  elect  ?  No,  no !  fond 
"  mother,  you  would  jeopardize  your  child's  soul ! 

"  When  the  deacon  saw  how  pale  and  sickly  little  Katy 
"  looked,  he  blamed  himself  for  having  negHcted  her  so 
"  long.  {  Mrs.  Stewart,'  said  he,  {  has  ruined  the  child, 
"  soul  and  body  !  She  shall  not  be  made  a  fool  of  any 
"  longer.  She  must  have  exercise,  and  good,  strong, 
"  wholesome  food.  Salt  pork,  beef,  cabbage,  potatoes 
"  and  coarse  bread,  will  make  her  strong  and  well.'  I 
11  was  forced  to  stand  and  look  on,  and  see  him  attempt 
"  to  apply  his  remedies.  Before  sunrise  in  the  morning 


THE   DEATH   OF   LITTLE    KATY.  155 

"  he  would  make  her  leave  her  bed  and  take  a  long  walk, 
"  even  when  the  cold  easterly  winds  chilled  her  through 
"and  through.  At  such  times,  she  would  return  shaking 
"  with  cold,  her  face  wet  with  the  burning  tears  of  intense 
"suffering;  even  then,  she  must  not  go  to  the  fire,  for 
"  it  was  not  wholesome.  The  deacon  threatened  in  vain  ; 
"the  tears  would  flow.  At  breakfast,  he  would  try  to 
"  force  her  to  eat  a  hearty  meal  of  detestable  salt  pork, 
"  fat  beef,  or  something,  if  possible,  equally  repugnant  to 
11  a  sick  child.  With  all  the  terror  which  he  inspired, 
"  he  could  make  her  eat  but  little.  In  vain  she  tried  to 
"force  it  down;  her  poor,  weak  stomach  would  not  receive 
"  it.  After  breakfast  he  would  set  her  to  sweeping,  and 
"  the  dust,  with  his  tobacco-smoke,  would  bring  on  a 
"  violent  fit  of  coughing.  That,  he  said,  was  good  for 
"  her,  as  it  would  start  the  phlegm  from  the  lungs. 

"  After  Mrs.  Stewart  left,  she  slept  with  me,  until  her 
ct  father  had  taken  her  under  his  especial  care ;  then  he 
"  would  not  permit  it,  and  for  a  time  she  slept  alone. 
"  You  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn,  that  after  all  this 
"  had  been  done,  she  failed  faster  than  ever.  One  morn- 
' '  ing,  she  was  unable  to  leave  her  bed,  and  I  took  her  in 
"  my  arms  and  carried  her  and  laid  her  in  my  own.  The 
"  deacon  was  incensed  when  he  learned  what  I  had  done ; 
"  but  when  he  came  into  the  room,  she  so  screamed  with 
"  affright,  and  clung  with  such  tenacity  to  my  neck,  that 
"  he  thought  it  best  to  leave  her  to  my  care,  muttering,  as 


156        THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  KATY. 

"  he  departed,  that  the  child  was  ruined.  I  now  had  the 
"  sole  care  of  her ;  and  so  affectionate  and  so  grateful  was 
"  the  dear  little  thing,  that  I  was  as  loth  to  leave  her  bed- 
"  side  as  she  was  to  have  me.  One  evening  she  looked 
"  at  me  very  earnestly,  and  said, 

"  '  Jane,  I  shall  die  before  many  days  ! ' 

"  i  I  hope  not,'  I  replied.  '  But  what  makes  you 
"think  you  shall  die?' 

11  i  Because  I  have  been  sick  so  long.'  After  a  short 
<c  pause,  she  continued,  '  I  dreamed,  just  now,  that  I  died, 
"  and  my  body  was  put  in  the  ground,  but  my  soul  went 
"  to  heaven  ;  and  I  felt  very  happy,  for  I  saw  my  mamma, 
"  that  you  told  me  of  last  night ! ' 

"  '  You  must  not  think  that  you  will  die,  because  you 
"  dreamed  that  you  were  dead.  People  often  dream  that 
"  they  are  dead,  and  live  many  years  after.' 

"  'Yes,  but  I  shall  not.     I  shall  never  be  well  again.' 

"  {  Do  you  wish  to  die?' 

"  *  Yes ;  if  I  can  go  to  heaven,  where  dear  mamma  is.' 

"  '  Do  you  wish  to  leave  me  ?  ' 

"  '  No,  dear  Jane  ! '  she  replied,  •  placing  her  arms 
11  around  my  neck,  '  but  father  !  '  and  she  looked  around 
"  as  though  she  feared  he  might  be  listening,  '  I  want  to 
{C  die,  and  go  away  from  him  !  0,  I  hope  he  won't  come 
11  to  heaven  ! ' 

"  '  You  should  not  hope  so,  Katy ;  for,  if  he  goes  to 
"  heaven,  he  will  be  better  than  he  is  now.' 


THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  KATY.        157 

"  { Is  God  in  heaven,  Jane  ?  ' 

"  '  God  is  everywhere.' 

" '  And  do  you  think  he  is  good;  and  will  he  Jove 
"  such  a  wicked  child  as  I  am,  when  I  am  dead  ? ' 

"  c  He  loves  all  his  creatures  ;  and  little  children  will 
"  all  be  cared  for  by  the  Saviour.  You  are  so  good,  that 
11  the  angels  must  love  you  !  What  makes  you  think  that 

I  c  you  are  wicked  1 ' 

"  '  Father  says  I  am ;  and  says,  if  I  should  die  now,  I 

II  should  go  to  a  bad  place  and  there  I  should  have  to  stay 
"  forever  !     But  I  am  sure  God  will  not  send  me  there, 
"  if  he  is  good, —  will  he,  Jane  ? ' 

"  '  No,  dearest.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  God;  for  he  is 
"  good  to  all.  If  you  die,  angels  will  take  you  and  carry 
"  you  to  a  happier  world  ! ' 

"  l  What  is  an  angel,  Jane  ?  ' 

"  '  Your  mother  is  one,  I  trust.  Angels  are  the  spirits 
"of  the  departed.' 

"  '  0,  I  hope  mother  will  come  after  me  !  I  shall  be 
11  so  happy  to  go  with  her  !  I  wish  you  and  Mrs.  Stewart 
"  could  go  too,  Jane  ! ' 

11 1  now  told  her  that  she  must  not  talk  any  more ;  and 
"  she  soon  fell  asleep.  The  physician  who  was  called 
"  said  her  disease  baffled  his  skill,  and  he  was  fearful  that 
"  his  prescriptions  would  be  in  vain. 

"  Three  days  after,  she  died.  When  her  father  was 
"  told  that  his  child  was  dying,  he  hastened  to  my  room  ; 
14 


158  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  KATY. 

"  but  she  seemed  fearful  of  him,  even  then.  She 
"  whispered  to  me, —  '  I  must  go  ;  mother  is  waiting  for 
"  me.  Do  not  let  him  keep  me  !  0,  there  are  beautiful 
11  beings  there,  and  I  shall  not  be  sick  any  more,  I  shall 
"  be  so  happy  ! ' 

"  Her  breath  soon  grew  shorter,  and  ere  long  she  was 
"  dead,  looking  as  though  she  had  fallen  into  a  quiet, 
"  happy  sleep.  What  a  beautiful  smile  rested  upon  her 
"  marble  face !  Dear,  dear  child,  she  is  now  in  heaven  ! 
"I  heard  the  deacon  whisper  to  mother,  as  they  turned 
"  away  from  the  bed  of  death,  that  he  was  sorry  that  she 
"  had  not  given  some  evidence  of  the  salvation  of  her  soul ; 
"he  feared  she  was  lost,  for  she  had  always  been  a 
"  stubborn  child ! 

"  Lost !  the  dear  angel !  heaven  has  not  a  purer  spirit ! 
"  What  a  creed  is  his,  and  what  a  heart  he  must 
' '  have  to  believe  it !  Heaven  deliver  me  from  such  a 
u  creed  as  that ! 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  spring  day  when  we  laid  her  in  the 
"  silent  grave,  by  the  side  of  her  mother.  A  willow 
"  droops  over  the  spot  where  she  sleeps ;  the  grass  grows 
11  green  by  her  side,  and  the  flowers  are  springing  all 
"  around  her.  Over  her  head  the  birds  sing  their  sweetest 
"  songs.  Twice  have  I  been  to  her  little  grave,  and 
"  bedewed  it  with  my  tears.  But,  thank  God,  she  is 
"  better  off  than  to  be  here !  She  has  now  found  her 
"  mother.  0,  the  joy  of  a  clear  and  beautiful  hope  in  a 


THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  KATY.        159 

"glorious  immortality!     'There  the  wicked  cease  from 
'  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest.' 

"  Our  dear  little  Katy  has  bid  us  farewell, 
"  And  gone  home  to  heaven,  where  bright  spirits  dwell ; 
'*  Her  mourning  is  over,  and  hushed  all  her  sighs, 
««  On  the  wings  of  a  seraph  she  soared  to  the  skies. 

"  Thy  life,  little  Katy,  was  saddened  with  grief, 
*'  And  tender  affection  could  not  bring  relief ; 
"  Thou' hast  found  it  in  heaven,  with  angels  so  mild, — 
"  The  soft,  loving  bosom  now  pillows  its  child. 

"  We  weep  not,  dear  Katy  !  though  brief  was  thy  stay, 
"  Thy  Saviour  has  won  thee,  and  called  thee  away  ; 
"  Thy  mother  enfolds  thee,  in  love,  as  of  yore,  — 
•*  Thy  sorrows  are  ended,  thy  trials  are  o'er. 

"0,  darling  !  we  miss  thee,  thou  dear  little  dove, 
"  But  sweet  is  thy  memory,  embalmed  in  our  love  ;  — 
*'  Good-by,  then,  dear  Katy,  so  blest  in  the  skies, 
".'Enraptured  in  glory,  with  joy  and  surprise  ! 

"  Things  remain  very  much  the  same  here,  excepting 
"  that  Hezekiah  Webber  is  married,  and  moved  on  to  his 
"  father's  place ;  for  which  we,  are  very  thankful,  all  but 
"  the  deacon,  who  did  not  like  to  part  with  his  hopeful 
"  son.  I  wish  he  had  gone  further  off,  for  now  he  has 
"  to  call  every  day.  Mother's  health  is  failing  quite  fast. 
"  I  do  not  think  she  has  many  years  to  stay  in  this  world. 
£  The  deacon  is  as  ugly  and  repulsive  as  ever,  but  I  will 
'*  not  pain  you  with  a  recital  of  his  brutal  deeds. 


160        THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  KATY. 

"  This  letter  would  be  unpardonably  lo;n£  if  it  did  not 
"  contain  matter  of  interest  to  you  and  Mrs.  Stewart. 
"  I  have  been  particular  in  giving  the  little  incidents, 
11  because  I  knew  that  Mrs.  Stewart  would  want  to  know 
"  all.  I  would  have  sent  for  you  both,  but  I  did  not 
"  think  it  best.  JANE." 

When  I  read  this  letter  to  Mrs.  Stewart,  she  wept  very 
freely ;  but  she  felt  reconciled,  for  Katy  was  free  from  her 
tormentor.  She  knew  that  the  dear  child  was  now  in  a 
brighter  and  better  world. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

NEW  SCENES  AND   NEW  THOUGHTS. 

IT  was  now  time  that  I  should  turn  my  attention  to 
business ;  for  I  was  twenty  years  old,  and  I  had  not  yet 
fully  determined  what  I  had  better  do  in  order  to  gain  an 
honest  livelihood.  I  fancied  that  I  should  like  to  be  a 
merchant ;  so,  through  the  assistance  of  my  uncle,  I  was 
engaged,  in  the  capacity  of  a  clerk,  to  a  merchant  by 
the  name  of  Dinneford,  in  the  city  of  New  York.  As 
his  business  was  not  large,  he  employed  but  two  clerks. 
When  the  arrangements  had  all  been  made  for  my  de 
parture,  I  bade  my  friends  a  warm  adieu,  and  started  for 

my  new  home.     I  noticed  that  Helen  was  much  affected 

m 
when  we  parted  ;  for,  when  she  let  go  my  hands,  which 

she  had  held  tightly  in  hers,  she  turned  her  head  to  hide 
the  tears. 

I  arrived  in  New  York  in  due  season,  and  was  kindly 
received  by  Mr.  Dinneford.  I  was  immediately  intro 
duced  to  a  young  man  by  the  name  of  Ernest  Brown, 
who  had  been  some  years  in  his  employ.  I  found  him  to 
be  an  honest-hearted  fellow,  but  reserved,  and  seemingly 
cold,  and  very  bashful.  In  society  his  diffidence  was  a 
14* 


162  NEW  SCENES  AND  NEW   THOUGHTS. 

sore  annoyance  to  him,  but  it  did  not  interfere  with  his 
duties  in  the  shop.  He  would  wait  upon  customers  with 
as  much  grace  and  blandness  of  manner  as  the  average 
run  of  clerks.  I  was  soon  after  made  acquainted  with 
Mrs.  Dinneford  and  two  daughters,  Agnes  and  Irene. 
Agnes  was  twenty-one,  and  Irene  nineteen.  The 
former  looked  like  a  good-hearted  girl,  but  there  was 
nothing  very  striking  in  her  appearance.  Not  so  with 
the  latter ;  she  was  the  most  beautiful  creature  I  had  ever 
seen.  Her  form,  I  thought,  was  perfect,  and  her  face 
charming. 

By  a  perfect  form,  I  do  not  mean  a  waist  like  a  wasp's, 
which  fools  and  fops  so  much  admire  ;  and  neither  do  I 
refer  to  the  charming  face,  which  generally  accompanies  the 
wasp  waist,  with  features  as  tame  and  void  of  expression  as 
a  painted  doll.  Irene's  form  and  face  were  such  as  God  gave 
to  women.  She  had  a  full  chest  and  a  generous  waist, 
giving  the  lungs  and  othe^  organs  a  chance  to  expand  and 
grow  strong  and  healthy.  Irene's  bust  had  that  rounded 
fulness  which  gives  one  a  little  of  the  voluptuous  look, 
and  attracts  the  attention  of  every  lover  of  the  beautiful. 
Her  face  was  more  beautiful,  if  possible,  than  her  form. 
A  white,  clear  skin,  dark,  expressive  eyes,  red  lips  and 
slightly  flushed  cheeks.  She  had  a  high  forehead,  and 
hair  of  a  dark  brown, —  of  a  soft,  silky  appearance.  Some 
times  her  eyes  wore  a  half-dreamy  expression ;  but  when 
aroused  by  any  subject  of  interest,  they  glowed  with  a 


HEW  SCENES  AND  NEW  THOUGHTS.  163 

brightness  that  was  enchanting.  I  had  thought  Helen 
Means  beautiful ;  but  how  much  more  so  was  Irene  Din- 
neford  !  She  took  my  hand  cordially,  and  after  a  few 
commonplace  words  had  passed  between  us,  she  turned 
away,  and  spoke  to  Mr.  Brown.  He  seemed  ill  at  ease  in 
her  presence,  replying  to  her  in  monosyllables,  inter 
spersed  with  hems.  She  remained  in  the  shop  some 
time,  busying  herself  in  looking  at  the  newest  patterns, 
and  asking  Ernest  various  questions  about  the  goods,  to 
which  he  gave  the  shortest  possible  replies,  in  a  rather  awk 
ward  manner.  Sometimes  I  caught  him  looking  at  her 
very  earnestly,  with  much  of  soul  in  his  naturally  hand 
some  eyes.  But,  as  soon  as  his  glance  met  hers,  his  eyes 
would  drop,  while  she  would  continue  to  gaze,  as  though 
she  wished  that  he  would  look  at  her  once  more  with  the 
same  admiring  glance.  I  felt  that  he  was  smitten  as 
much  as  I  was  ;  but  I  questioned  whether  he  would  ever 
summon  courage  enough  to  tell  her  of  his  love,  did  he 
love  never  so  well. 

My  time  now  passed  rather  pleasantly,  although  I  was 
not  so  well  pleased  with  the  business  as  I  expected  to  be. 
I  supposed  that  I  could  sell  goods  to  advantage,  and 
please  customers,  without  using  deception  or  falsehood. 
But  I  found  it  an  almost  utter  impossibility.  Customers 
did  not  seem  satisfied  with  the  simple,  honest  truth.  I 
had  a  great  abhorrence  of  falsehood,  from  a  child, —  a  liar 
I  despised.  Lying  seemed  so  ineffably  mean,  that  I 


164  NEW   SCENES  AND    NEW   THOUGHTS. 

heartily  despised  him  or  her  who  was  guilty  of  it.  It 
was  one  of  the  many  faults  of  the  Webbers.  Mr.  Diime- 
ford  was  as  honest  a  trader  as  I  had  ever  known.  He 
was,  at  least,  as  honest  as  he  could  afford  to  be ;  and,  the 
majority  would  say,  a  little  more  so.  But  even  he  felt 
obliged  to  use  deception  sometimes ;  and  so  did  Ernest, 
who  was  naturally  upright  and  conscientious.  I  was  in 
the  business  but  one  year ;  and  I  now  feel,  as  I  look  back 
to  that  period,  that  I  often  violated  my  principles.  The 
business  soon  became  distasteful  to  me,  because  it  was  so 
difficult  to  be  strictly  honest  and  truthful.  Purchasers 
were  accustomed  to  tell  so  many  falsehoods,  and  use  so 
much  deception,  that  we  sometimes  became  vexed,  and 
turned  their  own  weapons  against  themselves.  The  worst 
class  to  trade  with  are  the  Irish ;  and  they  are  enough  to 
irritate  a  saint.  From  what  experience  I  had  with 
them,  I  should  judge  they  thought  it  perfectly  right  to 
lie,  when  making  a  trade  ;  and  as  they  do  it  almost  uni 
versally,  they  will  not  believe  a  word  the  seller  says. 
You  might  as  well  talk  to  the  wind  as  to  an  Irishman, 
—  and  the  women  are  worse  than  the  men.  But  the 
fault  is  not  all  on  the  side  of  the  buyers,  for  it  is  not  an 
unusual  thing  for  traders  to  lie  and  deceive.  Merchants 
everywhere  should  adopt  the  one-price  system,  and  adhere 
to  it.  This  is  a  reform  that  is  greatly  demanded  ;  for  it 
would  save  the  telling  of  a  million  of  lies  a  day,  even  in 
our  own  country.  •  Let  a  convention  of  merchants  be 


i  NEW  SCENES  AND   NEW  THOUGHTS.  165 

called,  and  the  subject  discussed  in  all  its  bearings,  and 
tlfen  they  will  see  the  importance  of  adopting  at  once  the 
one-price  system.  There  was  a  class  of  purchasers  who 
would  not  believe  the  simple  truth,  but  the  most  ridicu 
lous  and  improbable  stories  were  readily  swallowed.  I 
was  thankful  that  all  were  not  of  this  caste.  Many  were 
intelligent  andv  honest,  and  seemed  to  know  as  by 
instinct  when  the  truth  was  told.  There  was  another 
class  who  would  not  believe  a  word  you  said, —  and  I  do 
not  now  refer  to  the  Irish.  All  remonstrance  with  them 
was  in  vain.  Such  persons  were  not  usually  very  well 
informed,  or  remarkably  cunning  ;  but  they  fancied  they 
were.  They  were  very  conceited,  self-confident,  exceed 
ingly  selfish,  without  principle  or  a  love  of  justice ;  and 
they  believed  that  everybody  would  lie  when  they  could 
gain  anything  by  it,  because  that  was  the  rule  by  which 
they  were  governed  themselves. 

I  had  not  been  many  months  in  the  business  before  I 
relinquished  the  long-cherished  idea  of  being  a  merchant. 
I  had  bargained  with  Mr.  Dinneford  for  one  year  ;  —  I 
resolved  that  I  would  remain  with  him  during  that 
period,  and  then  quit  the  mercantile  business  forever, 
unless  I  could  continue  it  without  being  troubled  with  the 
stings  of  conscience. 

New  York  was  a  good  school  for  me ;  for  I  learned  a 
thousand  things,  which  I  had  not  dreamed  of  in  the 
country.  I  learned  of  its  riches  and  its  poverty ;  of  its 


166  NEW   SCENES  AND   NEW  THOUGHTS. 


overgrown  wealth  and  its  squalid  wretchedness ;  of  its 
virtues  and  its  vices.  I  saw  its  fine  churches  and  cosfly 
temples  ;  but  beneath  their  very  shadows  were  starvation 
and  crime.  I  learned  that  many  were  driven,  from  abso 
lute  want,  to  a  life  of  infamy  ;  and  even  their  infamy 
was  made  a  source  of  profit  to  the  rich  and  bloated  church. 
I  do  not  include  all  churches  and  religious  societies  in 
this  condemnation ;  but  there  are,  even  now,  in  the  mid 
dle  of  this  boasted  nineteenth  century,  societies  which 
obtain  a  part  of  their  vast  income  by  renting  buildings 
for  the  vilest  purposes. 

I  had  previously  thought  a  city  a  very  fine  place. 
But,  alas !  when  I  had  an  opportunity  to  witness  its 
wretchedness,  crime  and  injustice,  I  sighed  for  the 
country  again, —  the  country,  with  its  green  fields  and 
running  brooks  and  rivers,  its  flowers  and  groves,  the 
melody  of  birds  and  pure  air !  More  beautiful  to  me 
were  the  hills  and  valleys  around  my  country  home 
than  the  parks  and  batteries  in  the  city.  I  felt  very 
miserable,  when  I  wandered  through  some  of  the  streets, 
and  found  nothing  but  poverty,  wretchedness  and  crime. 
Filth,  intemperance,  and  all  other  vices,  seemed  to  have 
a  habitation  in  every  house.  The  inmates  were  steeped 
in  corruption  and  wickedness ;  and  little  children,  who 
have  naturally  so  much  love  for  the  pure,  the  innocent 
and  the  beautiful,  seemed  at  home  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
filth  and  beastliness.  What  coarse  and  bloated  faces 


NEW  SCENES  AND   NEW  THOUGHTS.  167 

looked  out  of'  the  doors  and  windows  !  How  old  and 
strange  were  the  faces  of  the  little  children  !  What  an 
effect  did  all  this  abandoned  wickedness  produce  upon  the 
very  buildings  in  which  the  poor  wretches  lived  !  How 
dingy  and  fikhy  they  looked, —  prematurely  old,  and  fast 
going  to  decay.  Crime,  poverty,  filth,  debauchery,  starv 
ation  and  death,  seemed  to  stare  at  you  from  every  win 
dow,  and  to  breathe  out  darkness,  horror  and  disease,  from 
every  hole  and  crevice.  How  awful  it  is  to  see  male  and 
female,  black  and  white,  old  and  young,  all  living  to 
gether  in  the  same  dark  cellar,  and  all  reeking  with  the 
vilest  corruption !  From  such  plague-spots,  from  these 
vice-altars,  arises  the  foul  incense  of  death,  like  the  smoke 
of  the  bottomless  pit,  for  ever  and  ever  ! 

0 !  could  we  realize  how  many  diseases  have  their  ori 
gin  in  such  places, — diseases  which  carry  desolation  to 
thousands  of  hearts,  whether  rich  or  poor, —  we  should  not 
cease  to  cry  out,  in  agony,  until  a  remedy  was  found. 
The  church  would  awake  from  its  slumber  of  death,  and 
seek  to  save  men  here  —  deliver  them  from  the  lowest 
hell !  What  a  stigma  upon  Christianity  and  civilization, 
that  such  a  place  should  exist  under  the  very  droppings 
of  the  sanctuary, —  that  children  should  be  educated  for 
the  penitentiary  and  the  gibbet.  And  yet  thousands  are 
thus  educated,  every  year.  They  grow  up,  hating  God 
and  hating  man ;  without  love,  purity  or  hope.  Inured  to 
crime,  suffering,  hunger  and  poverty,  every  heart  shut 


* 

168  NEW  SCENES  AND  NEW  THOUGHTS. 

against  them,  every  ear  deaf  to  their  cries,  every  eye 
turned  from  them  with  loathing  and  disgust, —  is  it  any 
wonder  that,  Ishmael-like,  their  hands  are  raised  against 
every  man  ?  Who  teaches  them  love  and  truth  ?  Who 
sheds  the  tear  of  sympathy  over  their  woes  and  wrongs  ? 
Who  gives  them  kind  looks,  or  kind  words  ?  Alas  !  they 
read  only  scorn  and  contempt,  hatred  and  loathing,  in  the 
eyes  of  those  they  meet  by  the  way  !  They  feel  that  the 
Christian  and  the  man  of  God  wish  they  were  dead,  as 
vile  as  they  are.  Why  marvel  that  their  hearts  are  harc^ 

—  that  hatret!  and  revenge  mingle  with  all  the  red  blood 
that  courses  through  their  veins?      From  infancy  till 
death,  all  their  finer  feelings,  their  nobler  aspirations, 
their  better  emotions,  when  they  would  gush  forth,  are 
met  with  such  a  freezing  reception,  that  they  are  sent, 
trembling  and  cold,   back  upon   the   heart !     God  pity 
them,  for  the  world  despises  and  mocks !     Surely  there 
must  be  a  great  wrong  somewhere,  or  these  things  would 
not  be.     Can  society  be  right,  when  such  things  exist  ? 

—  the  vice,  the  crime,  the  corruption  continually  increas 
ing  !     Is  not  a  radical  change  in  society  called  for  ?     If 
not,  where  is  the  antidote  ? 

I  learned,  too,  the  fearful  inequality  which  exists  in 
this  republican  land !  Near  the  rich  man's  palace  was 
the  dwelling  of  the  poor, —  the  former  groaning  with 
luxury,  the  latter  pinched  with  hungry  want.  One 
suffering  with  the  superabundance  of  the  good  things  of 


NEW   SCENES  AND    NEW    THOUGHTS.  169 

earth ;  the  other  suffering  for  the  want  of  them.  The 
inmates  of  the  palace  often  leading  a  weary  life  for  the 
want  of  something  to  do ;  the  inmates  of  damp  cellars, 
close  rooms  and  cold  attics,  pining  for  rest.  One  party 
is  too  genteel  to  work ;  the  other  must  work  or  die  — 
work  day  and  night. 

That  .pale,  hollow-eyed,  sunken-cheeked  woman,  sit 
ting  sewing  so  late,  night  after  night,  by  a  dim  light, 
must  earn  the  bread  for  herself  and  three  children.  She 
has  once  seen'  better  days  ;  but  her  husband  is  dead,  and 
now  she  makes  shirts  for  six  cents  apiece  !  At  one 
o'clock,  stiff  and  cold,  she  will  blow  out  her  "dim  light 
and  lie  down  with  her  children.  Every  night  it  is"  so. 
Alas  !  she  will  soon  lie  down  in  the  grave  !  And  then, 
her  children  !  We  will  not  pursue  the  painful  subject. 

In  New  York  one  sees  society  in  all  its  various 
aspects  ;  and  the  more  he  sees,  and  the  more  he  reflects 
and  studies,  the  more  he  is  convinced  that  society,  in  its 
present  state,  is  wrong.  It  is  built  on  a  wrong  founda 
tion,  and  i^must  be  overturned  and  made  new.  The  rights 
of  the  laborer  must  be  looked  to, —  the  antagonisms  done 
away  with.  Now  the  jarring  discord  is  ever  heard, 
almost  drowning,  with  its  terrible  noise  and  confusion,  all 
the  sweeter  harmonies  of  the  universe.  The  battle  ever 
rages  ;  the  conflict  still  goes  on.  The  multitude  rush  on, 
in  eager  haste,  all  seeking  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize ; 
15 


170  NEW  SCENES  AND  NEW   THOUGHTS. 

not  stopping  to  heed  the  cries  and  groans  of  the  weak 
and  powerless,  who  are  trodden  under  their  feet. 

The  reader  will  pardon  me  for  these  prolonged  reflec 
tions,  because  of  their  importance.  Let  him  not  pass 
them  idly  by,  but  give  them  earnest  thought,  and  then  he 
may  lend  a  hand  to  hasten  on  the  "  good  time  coming." 


CHAPTER    XV. 

A   MEDLEY. 

I  MET  frequently  with  Irene  Dinneford,  both  at  her 
home  and  at  the  store.  I  spent  many  of  my  evenings 
with  her.  Sometimes  we  went  to  the  theatre,  the  opera, 
or  to  a  concert,  or  evening  lecture.  I  found  her  very 
intelligent  and  interesting.  We  discussed  the  merits  of 
plays,  actors  and  books.  She  was  well  versed  in  history, 
poetry  and  romance.  Of  all  the  poets,  she  liked  Byron 
best.  I  preferred  Shelley  and  Shakspeare.  She  was 
enraptured  with  the  grandeur  of  Milton,  the  beauty  of 
Thomson,  the  affection  of  Burns  and  the  melody  of  Moore. 
I  also  admired  them,  but  my  feelings  were  not  so  intense 
as  hers.  Our  tastes  were  similar  in  relation  to  literature, 
music  and  painting.  She  had  a  passionate  love  for  the 
drama,  but  regretted  that  actors  did  not  more  respect 
themselves.  "  If  they  would  be  temperate  and  virtuous," 
she  thought,  "  the  strong  prejudice  against  them  would 
gradually  wear  away."  She  was  right ;  for  it  is  lament 
able  they  should  so  often  degrade  themselves,  and  create 
injurious  prejudice. 

People  sometimes  express  their  surprise  that  play- 


172  A  MEDLEY. 

actors  should  be  so  poor ;  but  it  is  not  any  marvel,  when 
they  are  continually  visiting  hotels  and  gr^g-shops,  drink 
ing,  carousing,  day  after  day.  It  is  not  because  they 
receive  so  little,  but  they  spend  so  much  foolishly.  It 
is  folly  to  attempt  to  kill  the  drama,  or  do  away  with 
theatres.  People  will  have  amusements ;  and  the  drama 
should  be  made,  not  only  a  source  of  amusement,  but  of 
instruction  and  improvement.  Improper  language,  such 
as  is  unfit  and  would  corrupt  the  social  circle,  should  not 
be  uttered  upon  the  stage.  True  wit  is  not  coarse  or 
vulgar.  Words  of  vile  import,  indecent  hints,  etc.,  may 
please  the  low  and  depraved,  but  the  more  refined  and 
virtuous  will  turn  away  in  disgust.  In  this  respect  a 
reform  is  loudly  called  for,  and  stage-managers  will  do 
well  to  heed  it. 

Our  favorite  actor  was  the  elder  Booth,  who  has  within 
a  brief  period  "  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil."  He  was 
then  in  his  prime  ;  and  very  seldom,  if  ever,  has  he  been 
excelled  in  his  ability  to  delineate  character.  It  mattered 
not  that  his  face  and  form  were  not  in  accordance  with 
your  ideas  of  the  character  he  personated,  for  you  soon 
forgot  all  about  them;  you  forgot  Booth,  for  you  saw 
only  Hamlet.  So  of  Richard  the  Third,  the  hunch-back 
king  and  assassin, — he  was  "himself  again."  That  plotting 
devil,  lago,  wadked  the  stage  of  life  once  more ;  and  old, 
garrulous,  demented  King  Lear  made  you  sad  when  you 
looked  into  his  sorrow-stricken  face,  and  heard  him  pour 


A   MEDLEY.  173 

forth,  in  broken  words,  the  griefs  of  his  heart.  Poor 
Booth !  what  a  checkered  life  was  thine  !  "  Peace  to  thy 
ashes  !  " 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well." 

"  Thou  knowest  it  is  common,  all  that  live  must  die, 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity." 

"  Close  up  his  eyes,  and  draw  the  curtain  close, 
And  let  us  all  to  meditation." 

Our  tastes  being  so  similar,  it  was  no  marvel  that  we 
should  seek  each  other's  society,  and  feel  happy  when  we 
were  together ;  but  still  there  was  ever  something  lacking. 
There  was  not  that  freedom  and  ease  that  I  could  have 
wished.  Something  stood  between  us,  to  keep  us  apart. 
Half  ravished  with  her  beautiful  form  and  face,  her  soul- 
lit  eyes,  charmed  with  her  conversation,  I  sometimes 
thought  of  asking  her  to  become  mine.  But  her  manner 
was  never  sufficiently  cordial  to  give  me  the  required 
assurance  that  I  should  not  meet  with  a  repulse.  And 
ever,  when  I  thought  of  offering  myself  in  marriage  to 
her,  I  would  think  of  Helen, —  of  the  rescue,  the 
happy  hours  I  had  spent  in  her  presence,  our  pleasant 
rambles,  gathering  flowers,  chasing  butterflies,  reading 
out  of  the  same  book,  while  sitting  under  a  green,  shady 
tree.  How  many  hours  has  she  read  to  me,  in  her  clear, 
sweet  tones  !  And  then  I  was  happy. 
15* 


174  A   MEDLEY. 

"  0  !  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 

O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight  sea, 
Or  the  low,  soft  music,  perchance,  which  seems 
To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's  dreams,  — 

'*  So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes  look, 
As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 

And  we  read  by  turns  from  the  self-same  book  — 
Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 
Some  lover's  romance,  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

"  Then,  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe, 

Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dungeon  bar, 
Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 

Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar  ; 
And  I  seem  to  hear  the  prisoner's  wail, 
And  his  face  looks  on  me,  worn  and  pale. 

"  And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 

Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's  ; 
And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 

A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 
And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 
And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear  !  "  * 

Irene  Dinneford  was  good,  intelligent  and  accom 
plished,  and  more  beautiful  than  Helen  ;  but  then,  I  ever 
shrank  from  doing  what  would  separate  me  forever  from 
the  one  who  had  been  so  long  a  dear  companion  and 

*  Wbittier. 


A   MEDLEY.  175 

faithful  friend.  I  did  not  love  Helen,  and  I  knew  not 
what  were  her  feelings  in  reference  to  me  ;  but  I  felt  that 
the  relation  of  brother  and  sister  would  not  do  for  us. 
A  nearer  tie  must  bind  us,  or  our  dear  friendship  must 
be  broken.  We  might  remain  friendly  in  a  certain  sense, 
—  visit  each  other,  and  ever  be  affable  and  courteous ; 
but  that  joy  which  was  mutual  —  that  blending  of  soul, 
heart,  and  life  —  could  be  ours  no  more.  Hitherto, 
each  had  shared  the  other's  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes 
and  fears ;  but  now  I  felt  that  the  links  of  the  golden 
chain  which  encircled  us  were  broken,  and  my  hand 
had  done  it.  Henceforth,  there  was  a  breach  between 
us.  The  thought  made  me  scflprful.  But  I  did  not 
attempt  to  retrace  my  steps.  Helen  wrote  to  me  often, 
and  her  letters  ever  breathed  sweet  sisterly  affection. 
She  was  anxious  to  see  me,  and  said  that  her  dear  home 
was  lonely  without  me.  I  occasionally  heard  from  the 
home  that  was  once  mine,  but  not  often.  It  is  useless  to 
remark  that  it  was  the  same  dreary,  unhappy  place. 
Beautiful  was  the  scenery  all  around  it,  but  within  that 
large,  elegant  house,  embowered  in  trees,  was  dreariness 
and  decay.  Without,  the  birds  sang  in  the  trees,  and 
the  summer  winds  whispered  sweetest  music.  Flowers 
lifted  their  heads  and  held  up  their  bright  faces,  blushing 
as  they  received  the  warm  kisses  of  the  zephyrs  and  sun 
beams.  Within  was  harsh  discord,  ever-darkening  shad- 


176  A   MEDLEY. 

ows,  and  no  sun-light.  •    How  like  man,  smiling  when  his 
heart  is  full  of  bitterness  ! 

**  For  smiles  will  linger  on  the  face, 
Long  after  they  have  left  the  heart.'* 

Ernest  became  still  more  reserved,  and  in  vain  I  tried 
to  read  his  feelings.  I  could  not  understand  him.  He 
was  never  rude,  and  jet  I  was  always  repulsed  when  I 
•would  have  been  his  friend.  This  lack  of  cordiality  on 
his  part  did  not  cause  me  to  dislike  him.  I  felt  that  he 
was  true  at  heart ;  and  I  respected  him,  in  spite  of  his 
coldness.  I  thought  there  must  be  a  good  and  sufficient 
reason  for  his  want  ofljrdiality. 

I  sometimes  met  him  at  Mr.  Dinneford's.  His  appear 
ance  there  was  less  pleasing  than  elsewhere, —  more  awk 
ward  and  reserved.  He  seemed  anxious  to  join  in  the 
conversation,  and  yet  lacked  the  power.  When  Irene 
sang,  accompanied  by  the  piano,  which  she  played  most 
beautifully,  Ernest  gazed  enraptured,  and  his  whole  soul 
seemed  to  look  out  of  his  dark  eyes,  and  settle  in  intense 
admiration  upon  her.  When  she  caught  his  glance,  there 
was  a  wild  light  in  her  eyes,  which  glowed  full  upon  him, 
causing  him  to  shrink  back  within  himself.  That  noble, 
inspiring  look,  which  had  for  a  moment  lighted  up  his 
countenance,  vanished,  like  the  meteor's  flash  in  an  eve 
ning  sky.  I  sometimes  thought  that  Irene  must  be  more 
than  half  a  coquette. 


A    MEDLEY.  177 

He  would  generally  retire  early,  leaving  me  tete-a-tete 
with  Irene,  which  was  just  what  I  desired.  She  would 
occasionally  ask  my  opinion  of  Ernest ;  but  not  often,  for 
I  had  nothing  new  to  tell  her.  I  told  her  that  he  was 
different  from  most  other  young  men ;  and  that  I  could 
know  but  little  of  him,  for  I  had  failed  to  gain  his  confi 
dence.  Her  opinion  coincided  with  mine.  She  wished 
he  was  more  frank,  and  less  reserved, —  would  be  glad 
to  be  better  acquainted  with  him.  I  thought  she  was 
quite  interested ;  but  then,  as  she  was  a  girl  of  fine  feel 
ings  and  large  sympathies,  I  very  naturally  supposed 
that,  as  he  appeared  gloomy  and  unhappy,  she  was  anxious 
to  disperse  the  clouds,  and  let  the  bright  sunlight  shine 
resplendent  upon  him. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE   BETROTHAL. 

ONE  cool  and  bright  morning  in  October,  as  I  was 
crossing  Broadway.  I  noticed  a  commotion  down  the 
street ;  I  looked  to  discover  the  cause,  and  saw  a  horse 
attached  to  a  buggy  chaise  running  at  full  speed.  As 
the  carriage  came  nearer,  I  saw  it  contained  only  a 
female ;  and  knowing  that  it  must  inevitably  come  in  con 
tact  with  a  large  wagon  just  beyond  me,  I  resolved  to 
attempt  to  save  her,  at  all  hazards.  When  the  horse  was 
nearly  opposite,  I  sprang  and  caught  him  by  the  bit,  and 
succeeded  in  bringing  him  to,  barely  in  season  to  save 
the  carriage  from  being  dashed  to  pieces,  and  its  inmate, 
most  probably,  from  serious  injury.  In  doing  this,  I 
was  not  a  little  bruised ;  for  I  was  taken  from  my  feet, 
and  dragged  some  rods.  Still,  my  injuries  were  not  of  a 
very  serious  nature. 

How  great  was  my  surprise,  when  I  arose  to  my  feet, 
to  find  that  the  young  lady  in  the  carriage  was  Irene 
Dinneford  !  She  looked  pale  and  much  frightened ;  but  a 
bright  flush  sprang  to  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  lighted  up 


THE   BETROTHAL.  179 

with  an  unwonted  brilliancy,  when  she  saw  who  was  her 
preserver.  She  sprang  from  the  carriage  and  warmly 
grasped  my  hand,  thanking  me,  not  in  words,  but  in 
looks,  a  thousand  times.  She  said,  "  Henri,  you  must 
go  home  with  me."  I  readily  assented,  and  we  got  into 
a  hack  and  were  quickly  driven  to  Mr.  Dinneford's.  She 
informed  me.  on  the  way,  that  she  had  rode  out  with  her 
father ;  that  he  left  the  horse  for  a  moment,  to  deliver  a 
letter  intrusted  to  his  care.  Some  water  thrown  from  a 
window  near  by,  just  at  that  moment,  frightened  the  horse. 
She*  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  grasp  the  reins,  and 
was  enabled,  it  being  early  in  the  morning,  when  com 
paratively  few  carriages  were  stirring,  to  keep  clear  of 
them.  She  saw,  as  she  approached  the  large  wagon,  that 
to  pass  it  without  coining  in  contact  was  almost  impossi 
ble  ;  and  she  felt  that  she  had  not  long  to  live. 

Soon  after  we  had  arrived  at  her  home,  Mr.  Dinneford 
came  in,  all  out  of  breath,  and  looking  as  pale  as  death. 
When  he  found  that  his  darling  Irene  was  safe,  he  was 
overjoyed,  aud  the  pearly  tears  glistened  in  his  eyes.  I 
had  the  satisfaction  of  receiving  the  congratulations  of 
the  whole  family,  and  among  the  happy  I  was  the 
happiest.  On  account  of  my  bruises,  they  said  I  must 
remain  where  I  was  for  the  present.  Although  I  was 
not  much  hurt,  I  willingly  consented  to  remain.  Where 
else  could  I  be  so  happy  as  in  the  company  of  Irene 
Dinneford  ? 


180  THE   BETROTHAL. 

The  day  passed  away  pleasantly,  and  I  never  felt  bet 
ter  satisfied  with  myself  and  all  around  me.  Irene  and  I 
were,  for  the  most  of  the  time,  alone.  She  seemed  nearer 
and  dearer  to  rae  than  ever ;  that  something  which  had 
stood  between  us,  like  a  cloud  between  the  sun  and  the 
earth,  had  departed, — the  spectre  had  vanished,  leaving 
but  a  slight  shadow -behind,  even  as  the  shadows  of  night 
still  linger  after  the  morning  has  dawned.  Irene  looked 
radiantly  hnppy,  and  sat  by  my  side,  with  one  hand  clasped 
in  mine,  her  passionate  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon  me,  as 
though  they  would  say,  "Our  happiness  is  now  complete  ! " 
The  window  where  we  sat  commanded  a  full  view  of  the 
western  sky,  in  which  reposed  vast  piles  of  fleecy  clouds, 
in  an  atmosphere  of  gold.  The  sun  was  just  descending, 
and  ever  and  anon  it  hid  its  face  behind  a  white  cloud, 
making  it  to  look  red  and  bright,  like  the  fiery  eyes  behind 
it.  Then  again  the  cloud  was  removed,  and  a  flood  of 
glory  swept  through  the  world,  like  the  breath  of  the 
storm-god  over  the  great  waters.  In  the  distance,  the 
landscape  smiled  like  a  radiant  bride,  the  face  of  the 
waters  brightened,  and  the  domes  and  spires  of  the  city 
gleamed  with  golden  light.  Again  its  face  was  hid,  and 
now  those  mountains  of  snowy  clouds  shone  with  fiery 
grandeur  and  beauty,  as  though  vast  flames  were  glowing 
in  their  bosoms.  Soon  the  day-king  had  descended  to 
his  bed,  and  the  curtains  of  his  golden  couch  were  drawn 
closely  around  him,  and  we  saw  his  face  no  more.  Now 


THE   BETROTHAL.  181 

shadows  rested  upon  the  landscape,  played  upon  the  face 
of  the  waters,  and  caine  in  troops  into  the  streets  and 
lanes  of  the  city. 

I  turned  to  Irene ;  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks,  and 
I  asked  her  why  she  wept  —  if  she  was  unhappy. 

"  It  was  too  much  for  me/'.she  replied.  <;  0  !  what  a 
beautiful  sunset!  Nay% radiantly  glorious  !  Is  heaven, 
think  you,  more  beautiful  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  I  replied ;  "  but  there,  we  trust,  no  jar 
ring  discords  can  come  between  us  and  such  celestial 
harmonies." 

"  True,  true.  But  do  not  mar  our  present  joy  by 
inviting  them  hither  now." 

"  I  will  not,  dearest.  But,  lest  they  shoulcf  come,  you 
must  sing,  and  then  they  will  seek  to  enter  in  vain." 

She  arose,  and  opened  the  piano,  and  sang,  in  clear, 
sweet  tones,  Burns'  "  Sweet  Afton."  I  had  never  heard 
it  before,  and  the  words  fell  upon  my  ears  like  the  sweet 
breathings  of  flute-like  music,  when  they  steal  on  har 
mony's  soft  wings  across  a  quiet  stream.  »Jne  then  sang 
a  livelier  song,  which  I  have  frequently  heard  since,  but 
oftener  murdered  than  sung.  I  was  charmed  with  the 
singing  of  a  part  of  the  chorus.  Here  are  the  wprds  : 

"  Dearest  for  thee,  thee  only, 

These  mountain  wilds  are  sweet  to  me; 
Each  crag  and  valley  lonely 
Are  blessed  because  't  is  loved  by  thee.'* 

16 


182  THE   BETROTHAL. 

She  then  played  a  wild,  touching  air,  in  which  were 
mingled  strains  of  thrilling  sweetness,  soft  as  the  whis 
pered  music  of  zephyrs  when  playing  among  the  petals 
of  roses. 

She  now  closed  the  piano,  and  came  and  sat  down  by 
my  side.  It  was  still  light,  and  I  could  see  that  her  face 
was  radiant  and  happy. 

li  Henri,"  she  said,  earnestly,  *c '  how  shall  I  ever  cancel 
the  debt  I  owe  you  ?  " 

"  What  debt,  Irene?" 

"  When  in  the  greatest  peril,  you  delivered  me,  arid,  I 
believe,  saved  my  life,  at  the  risk  of  your  own.  I  know 
not  how  to  pay  such  a  debt  as  that." 

"I  did  "not  know  it  was  you,  Irene;  so  you  are  not 
particularly  in  debt." 

"  That  does  not  alter  the  case.  I  must  insist  upon  it 
that  I  owe  a  debt  which  I  can  never  pay." 

"  Since  you  insist  upon  it,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  may 
be  cancelled." 

"  Do  BOjWshe  said,  quickly,  "  and  it  shall  be  done. 
What  shall  it  be,  Henri?" 

I  put  my  arms  around  her  neck,  and  drew  her  towards 
me.  "  Give  me  the  right  to  call  you  mine,  only  mine," 
I  said,  passionately.  She  leaned  her  head  upon  my  bosom, 
and  I  folded  her  to  my  heart. 

"  You  are  mine,  mine  only,"  I  whispered. 

"  Yes,  dearest,"  she  said,  and  mutual  kisses  sealed  the 


THE  BETROTHAL.  183 

contract.  Our  bliss  was  short,  for  she  suddenly  sprang 
from  my  arms,  like  a  frightened  fawn. 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  "  do  you  repent  so  soon  ?  " 

"  0  !  no,  Henri ;  but,  pardon  me  !  My  nature  is  so 
impetuous  that  I  had  forgotten  what  propriety  required." 

UI  don't  think  so.  These  rules  of  propriety  are  like 
icebergs,  decidedly  chilling.  Must  the  warmest  and  most 
generous  feelings  of  the  heart  be  all  chained  or  crushed, 
whenever  they  would  leap  into  life?" 

"  I  would  that  mine  might  be  chained,  sometimes." 

"  I  shall  disagree  with  you.  Would  you  bind  the 
winds,  and  chain  the  lightning?" 

"  Yes,  both,  when  they  are  likely  to  do  mischief.  Your 
simile  pleases  me,  and  I  will  seek  to  profit  by  it." 

('  Very  well,  but  give  me  the  assurance  that  you  love 
me  —  that  I  shall  have  the  right  to  call  you  my  own 
Irene." 

She  gave  me  her  hand,  and  whispered,  "  I  am  thine!" 
We  were  here  interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  the  tea-bell, 
and  our  blissful  tete-a-tete  was  ended. 

That  night  I  had  a  strange  dream,  leaving  an  impression 
which  I  could  not  shake  off.  I  thought  that  a  spirit  came 
and  stood  by  my  bed,  and  gazed  upon  me  with  a  mild, 
reproving  look.  Its  face  resembled  Helen  Means'.  It 
did  not  speak,  and  yet  I  felt  that  I  must  go  with  it.  I 
hastily  arose,  and  was  surprised  to  find  how  quickly  I  had 
recovered  from  my  injuries.  In  a  brief  period  I  was  at 


184  THE   BETROTHAL. 

my  boyhood's  home.  Once  more  the  humid  hills  and 
valleys  and  green  woodlands  were  smiling  and  rejoicing 
all  around  me.  The  flowers  were  again  blushing,  as  they 
frolicked  with  the  zephyrs;  and  the  butterflies  were  danc 
ing  gayly  through  the  soft  and  balmy  atmosphere,  as 
though  a  world  of  happiness  filled  their  little  hearts. 
Once  more  I  stood  by  that  dark  stream  of  water,  and  saw 
the  golden-tinted  fish.  Then  I  was  startled  by  a  loud 
cry  of  distress ;  and  I  hastened,  with  my  usual  impetuosity, 

deliver  a  little  girl  from  the  brutal  hands  into  which 
she  had  fallen.  The  child  was  poor  and  pale,  and  her  cloth 
ing  ragged  and  dirty.  "  I  know  you,"  thought  I ;  "  you 
are  Helen  Means." 

In  a  moment,  as  it  were,  the  scene  had^ changed.  I 
was  walking  in  a  dark  and  unknown  wood ;  the  rain  was 
beating  down  in  torrents,  and  the  wind  was  shaking  the 
tall  forest  trees  in  great  wrath,  and  howling,  and  moan 
ing,  and  shrieking,  as  though  the  woods  were  filled  with 
the  ghosts  of  the  damned.  The  spirit  was  still  with  me. 
It  led  me  to  a  large  tree,  and  beneath  it  reposed,  in  soft 
sleep,  although  the  storm  was  beating  upon  it,  a  little 
child.  A  sweet  smile  played  upon  its  pale  face ;  and,  as 
I  gazed  in  wonder  upon  so  strange  a  sight,  I  thought, 
"  And  you,  too,  are  Helen  Means." 

Again  the  scene  had  changed,  and  I  was.  in  the  dearest 
spot  to  me  on  earth,  for  there  had  I  spent  my  happiest 
days.  It  seemed  a  calm,  star-light  night,  cool  but  beau- 


THE    BETROTHAL.  185 

tiful.  I  could  hear  the  soft,  liquid  notes  of  a  laughing 
stream,  whose  meandering  course  I  had  often  followed, 
while  by  my  side  had  walked  or  ran  a  gentle  being, —  a 
happy,  blue-eyed  girl,  pure  and  truthful  as  an  angel.  In 
the  distance,  on  yonder  hill-side,  the  limbs  of  the  trees 
were  waving  in  the  night-breeze,  as  if  they  welcomed  me 
home  again.  I  gazed  with  silent  and  breathless  joy  upon 
the  calm  scene  around  me.  I  was  alone,  but  in  a  moment, 
the  spirit  was  again  at  my  side.  I  knew  that  I  must  follow 
it.  Close  to  us  was  the  house  of  my  uncle  ;  we  entered 
the  front  door  and  walked  up  the  stairs,  and  rny  gm&e 
led  me  to  the  bedside  of  a  beautiful  girl,  who  seemed  to  be 
in  a  troubled  sleep.  The  spirit  gazed  upon  her  stead 
fastly,  with  eyes  of  love ;  and  then  turned  to  me  and  said, 
though  not  a  sound  escaped  its  lips,  "  Her  dreams  are 
sad ;  thou  mayst  know  their  import."  I  now  read  her 
thoughts  as  plainly  as  I  ever  read  in  a  book.  She  was 
dreaming  of  me  —  that  I  had  forgotten  her,  and  given  my 
heart  to  another.  Pearly  tears  started  from  their  invisi 
ble  founts,  and  slowly  rolled  down  her  pale  cheeks.  She 
awoke  and  murmured,  "  Cruel,  cruel  Henri !  "  I  was 
immeasurably  distressed,  and  was  about  to  speak,  when  I 
awoke.  Just  as  I  opened  my  eyes,  I  fancied  I  heard  her 
say,  "  Thank  heaven,  it  is  all  a  dream  !  "  I  could  with 
difficulty  persuade  myself  that  I  had  not  heard  her  voice. 
The  words  seemed  to  have  been  spoken  in  my  room.  I, 
too,  was  glad  to  find  it  all  a  dream.  I  was  in  a  deep 
16* 


186  THE    BETROTHAL. 

perspiration,  and  my  cheeks  were  wet  with  my  tears. 
"Strange,"  thought  I,  " that  a  dream  should  affect  me 
thus  !  "  I  did  not  sleep  again,  for  my  thoughts  were  so 
troubled  that  I  could  not.  I  courted  the  sleepy  god  in 
vain.  I  succeeded,  at  last,  in  driving  away  the  thoughts 
that  oppressed  me,  by  the  consideration,  which  I  eagerly 
sought  to  impress  upon  my  mind,  that  I  had  but  passed 
through  a  troubled  dream,  caused,  perhaps,  by  the  pre 
vious  day's  excitement,  and  the  injuries  from  which  I  was 
suffering. 

&  arose  and  dressed  myself  with  difficulty,  for  my 
limbs  were  stiff  and  sore,  and  there  was  a  severe  pain  in 
my  side.  When  the  family  saw  my  haggard  appearance, 
they  expressed  much  solicitude,  and  were  fearful  that  my 
injuries  were  more  severe  than  I  had  supposed  them  to 
be.  I  told  them  that  I  had  not  rested  well,  but  there 
were  no  alarming  symptoms.  I  read  so  much  pure  sym 
pathy  and  concern  in  the  sweet  face  of  Irene,  that  the 
effects  of  my  dream  soon  departed,  and  my  spirits  were 
again  buoyant  and  happy.  By  the  application  of  such 
remedies  as  were  requisite,  I  was  soon  relieved  from  all 
my  unpleasant  symptoms.  I  felt  that  I  should  recover, 
for  I  had  an  angel  for  a  nurse. 

In  the  afternoon  Ernest  came  to  see  me.  His  coun 
tenance  looked  more  dejected  than  ever.  He  expressed  a 
desire  that  Irene  should  sing.  She  complied,  and  sang, 


THE   BETROTHAL.  187 

•'  0,  give  me  a  cot  in  the  valley  I  love, 
A  tent  in  the  green-wood,  a  home  in  the  grove." 

And,  at  my  request, 

"  I  dreamt  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls." 

Ernest  stood  and  gazed  upon  her  with  that  same  enrap 
tured  expression  "which,  more  than  once  before,  I  had 
seen  light  up  and  make  beautiful  a  usually  tame  and 
inexpressive  countenance.  Irene  caught  his  glance,  and 
a  troubled  look  came  over  her,  and  just  then  I  was  a  bit 
jealous.  But  it  soon  passed  away,  for  I  fancied  she 
might  be  thinking  of  his  joyless  life. 

The  next  day  I  wrote  to  my  uncle,  informing  him  of 
my  engagement  to  Irene  Dinneford,  and  the  circum 
stances  attending  it,  craving  his  blessing, —  also  my 
aunt's,  Mrs.  Stewart's  and  Helen's.  A  pang  shot 
through  my  heart,  as  I  wrote  the  dear  name  of  Helen, 
and  ray  strange  dream  was  again  vividly  before  me.  But 
I  finished  my  letter,  and,  with  a  heart  half  sad,  half  joy 
ous,  delivered  it  into  the  hands  of  a  servant,  to  be  taken 
to  the  office. 

In  a  few  days  I  had  returned  to  the  store,  having,  in 
the  mean  time,  entirely  altered  my  plans  for  the  future. 
Mr.  Dinneford  had  offered  me  a  partnership  in  his  busi 
ness,  which  I  had  agreed  to  accept.  The  first  day  of 
January  was  fixed  as  the  time  when  I  should  com 
mence  business ;  till  then  I  was  to  remain  a  clerk,  as  I 


188  THE    BETROTHAL. 

had  been.  On  that  day  I  was  to  lead  Irene  to  the  altar. 
When  Ernest  learned  of  this  arrangement,  he  signified 
his  wish  to  close  his  services  as  clerk  immediately ;  but 
Mr.  Dinneford  would  not  consent  until  his  time  expired, 
the  last  day  of  December.  In  due  season  a  letter 
arrived  from  my  uncle.  It  was  brief,  and,  I  thought, 
cold.  It  commenced  by  expressing  surprise  that  they 
were  to  lose  me  so  soon, —  hoped  I  might  be  very  happy, 
and  that  they  should  have  the  pleasure,  ere  long,  of  see 
ing  me  and  my  affianced  bride.  Helen's  name  was  not 
mentioned,  and  I  felt  a  little  piqued. 

The  days  and  weeks  now  passed  away  swiftly  and 
pleasantly,  for  they  floated  on  the  rosy  wings  of  love. 
Irene  and  I  were  much  together,  and  we  felt  that  to  be 
near  each  other  was  happiness.  Not  that  our  bliss  was 
unalloyed,  for  tlfere  were  moments  when  neither  seemed 
at  ease.  I  knew  not  what  were  the  thoughts  that  made 
her  unhappy,  but  I  well  knew  my  own.  That  myste 
rious  dream  often  troubled  me,  and  the  thought  that 
Helen  was  lost  to  me  forever  made  me  at  times  wretched. 
A  long  time  had  passed,  and  she  had  not  answered  my 
last  letter.  My  uncle  had  written  that  she  was  indis 
posed,  and  unable  to  write.  I  thought  of  going  to  her, 
that  I  might  comfort  her  in  her  hour  of  sorrow ;  but 
something  held  me  back.  A  few  months  before,  and  I 
should  have  flown  on  the  swift  win^s  of  love. 

o 

It  pained  me  not  a  little  to  realize  that  the  nearer  the 


THE   BETROTHAL.  189 

day  approached  for  our  marriage,  the  less  there  was  of 
mutual  love  and  sympathy  between  us.  Instead  of  that 
oneness  of  feeling  and  sentiment,  that  melting  and 
mingling  of  two  beings  into  one,  which  is  so  requisite  to 
secure  happiness  in  married  life,  there  was  a  mutual 
shrinking  away,  as  though  we  dreaded  the  hour  when  the 
law  should  declare  us  husband  and  wife.  The  old 
shadow  had  returned,  and  stood,  with  a  stern  glance,  to 
frighten  us  back,  like  the  lions  in  the  path  of  the  pilgrim, 
whenever  we  would  approach  the*goal  of  happiness.  I 
was  often  thinking  of  Helen,  arid  Irene  was  thinking  of 
— I  knew  not  what.  She  once  expressed  to  me  her 
fears  that  we  should  never  be  happy.  I  asked  her  why 
she  thought  so.  She  said  she  did  not  know,  but  she 
could  not  drive  the  troubling  thought  from  her  heart.  I 
threw  my  arms  around  her,  and,  as  her  head  rested  upon 
my  bosom,  I  whispered,  "All  will  yet  be  well,"  —  though 
I  but  half  felt  it. 

We  do  not  always  know  the  import  of  our  own  words. 
The  seer  tells  of  things  which  are  yet  to  come  to  pass, 
but  does  not  understand  them.  He  is  often  a  medium 
of  truth  to  the  world,  the  importance  of  which  he  has  no 
conception. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

A   WALK   IN   THE    PARK.— EAVES-DROPPIXG. 

IT  was  the  second  week  in  December,  and  the  nuptial 
day  was  rapidly  approaching.  One  evening,  just  as  the 
sun  had  set,  I  calleuat  Mr.  Dinneford's.  It  was  warm, 
like  summer,  and  not  a  flake  of  snow  had  yet  fallen.  I 
inquired  for  Irene,  and  was  told  that  a  cousin  had  ar 
rived  from  the  country  that  afternoon,  arid  that  she,  Mr. 
Dinneford  and  Irene,  had  gone  to  a  walk  in  the  Park.  I 
walked  leisurely  there,  and  soon  encountered  Mr.  Din 
neford,  who  was  alone.  I  asked  for  the  girls,  and  he 
pointed  them  out.  some  distance  off,  walking  very  slowly, 
as  though  engaged  in  deep  conversation. 

"  I  let  them  stray,"  said  Mr.  Dinneford,  "  for  they 
are  old  cronies,  and  I  was  well  aware,  by  their  actions, 
that  they  had  a  number  of  young  girls'  secrets  to  dis 
close  to  each  other.  And  now,  as  you  have  come,  I  shall 
take  myself  off,  being  of  no  further  use." 

I  did  not  immediately  follow  them,  but  let  them  con 
tinue  their  conversation,  until  it  had  become  dark.  As 
I  approached  them,  they  took  a  seat,  without  noticing 
me,  so  much  were  they  engrossed  with  the  subject  that 


A   WALK  IN  THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING.     191 

engaged  their  attention.  I  thought  I  would  step  up 
behind  them,  and  give  them  a  sudden  start.  When  I  was 
nearly  to  them,  I  heard  her  cousin  say, 

II  And  so  you  are  engaged  to  marry,  and  yet  you  are 
fearful  that  you  do  not  love  him." 

"I  know  that  I  do  not  love  him  as  he  deserves  to  be 
loved,  or  as  his  nature  requires,"  was  the  answer. 

I  was  now  deeply  interested,  and  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  hear  more. 

"  And  shall  you  marry  him,  if  you  cannot  love  him  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must,  now,  it  has  gone  so  far." 

"  But  you  must  not  do  anything  of  the  kind.  What 
right  have  you  to  go  to  the  altar,  if  you  do  not  love  ?  " 

"I  sometimes  feel  it  to  be  wrong;  but  I  highly 
respect  him,  and  almost  love  him ;  and  our  minister  says 
that  respect  is,  on  the  whole,  better  than  love,  for  there 
is  something  to  found  love  upon  after  marriage." 

"  Your  minister  is  a  fool !  I  have  no  patience  with 
many  of  the  clergy  of  the  present  day  ;  they  don't  seem 
to  be  more  than  half  human." 

"  Why,  how  you  talk  of  the  clergy  !  Mother  would 
think  you  a  heathen,  to  hear  you." 

"  What  I  say  is  true,  nevertheless.  Tell  about  re 
spect  being  better  than  love  !  What  constitutes  marriage 
but  mutual  love  ?  " 

II 1  feel  that  you  are  right ;  but  I  will  marry  Henri, 
and  I  shall  love  him,  he  is  so  noble  and  generous." 


192     A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING.      . 

"  Why  do  you  think  you  shall  love  him  after  mar 
riage,  if  you  cannot  before  ?  " 

"  Because  I  almost  love  him  now ;  and  sometimes  I 
have  felt  that  I  love  him  with  my  whole  heart.  0  !  how 
often  have  I  prayed  that  it  might  be  so  always !  " 

"And  yet  your  prayer  is  not  answered.  Irene,  it  is 
not  right  that  it  should  be.  Your  love  for  him  is  that 
of  a  sister  for  a  dear  brother,  rather  than  a  husband." 

"  I  am  fearful  that  it  is  so,  but  I  hope  not.  After  we 
are  married,  I  shall  feel  that  we  must  be  all  in  all  to 
each  other ;  and  he  is  so  good,  .1  doubt  not  I  shall  love 
him  dearly." 

"  Irene,  the  girl  who  gives  her  hand  to  a  man  she 
does  not  love,  perils  her  own  happiness  and  the  happiness 
of  her  husband,  and  commits  a  great  wrong.  You  will 
not  marry  Henri !  " 

"  Do  not  say  that,  Mary.  Henri  saved  me  in  the 
hour  of  peril,  and  I  have  promised  to  marry  him.  My 
parents  have  given  their  consent  and  their  blessing. 
The  day  is  rapidly  approaching.  It  is  too  late  now." 

"No,  it  is  not  too  late, —  you  are  not  yet  married. 
There  is  yet  time,  if  you  only  act  as  a  woman  should." 

"But  can  I  do  him  so  great  a  wrong,  when  he  has 
done  so  much  for  me?  And  what  would  my  parents 
say?" 

"The  greatest  wrong  you  can  do  Mr.   Eaton  is  to 


A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING.     193 

marry  him,  when  you  cannot  give  him  your  whole 
heart." 

"  0,  but  he  shaUg^ever  know  it.  It  is  too  late  to  think 
of  breaking  our  engagement  now.  I  will  marry  him  !  " 

"  Irene,  be  candid  with  me.  Is  there  not  some  other 
being  in  the  world  whom  you  love  more  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mary." 

"  You  do  not  know!  But  you  do  know,  and  you 
cannot  hide  the  truth  from  your  own  heart.  Tell  me 
who  it  is,  and  why  you  are  separated." 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl,  Mary,  and  seem  determined 
to  bring  all  my  hidden  thoughts  to  light.  To  tell  the 
truth,  there  is  one  whom  I  have  often  fancied  that  I 
could  love,  if  he  would  love  me  ;  and  I  thought  so  before 
I  ever  saw  Henri." 

"  I  guessed  as  much.  Who  is  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  The  bashftdM^erk  to  whom  I  introduced  you,  when 
you  were  here  last." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  admire  your  taste.  I  should 
prefer  Mr.  Eaton ;  but  we  do  not  all  think  alike.  But 
does  he  know  anything, —  is  he  intelligent?  He  ap 
peared  to  me  very  dull  and  stupid,  and  entirely  devoid 
of  language,  excepting  no  and  yes,  and  frequent  hems." 

"  He  is  very  diffident,  and  often  stupid ;  but  I  know  he 

has  a  soul  true  and  noble.     One  who  lacks  intelligence 

and  goodness  could  not  look  as  I  have  seen  him.     I  have 

seen  his  countenance  lit  up,  as  it  were,  by  inspiration ; 

17 


194     A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING. 

and  0,  how  noble  it  looked  !  And  his  eyes  —  how  full 
of  passion  they  were,  and  how  entrancing  was  their 
expression!  " 

u  I  think  he  would  feel  flattered  to  hear  you  now.  1 
see  plainly  enough  that  you  love  him.  But  have  you 
any  evidence  that  this  feeling  is  mutual'?" 

"  I  have  thought  so,  when  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
me  so  passionately,  and  seemingly  so  full  of  admiration ; 
and,  besides,  he  is  so  much  more  sorrowful  since  he 
learned  my  engagement  with  Henri." 

11  Irene,  you  shall  marry  Ernest,  and  not  Henri  !  " 

"  O3  no  !  it  may  not  be.  I  do  not  know  that  I  should 
like  Ernest  at  all,  if  better  acquainted.  In  three  weeks 
I  shall  be  married,  and  then  Ernest  will,  be  nothing  to 
me.  But  you  must  never  mention  this  to  a  single 
soul." 

"  No,  dear,  I  will  not.  You  know  tirat  you  can  trust 
me ;  but  do  you  think  Mr.  Eaton  woulcHnarry  you,  if  he 
knew  what  your  feelings  are  '?  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  he  would.  I  sometimes  think  that 
he  does  not  love  me.  He  is  very  different,  at  times," 

"  Another  reason  why  you  should  not  marry.  It  must 
not  be,  Irene." 

"  I  have  told  you  that  it  is  too  late  to  retreat.  I  know 
what  my  father  would  say.  I  never  had  a  cross  look  or 
an  angry  word  from  him  in  my  life,  and  I  could  not  bear 
them  now." 


A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING.     195 

By  this  time  I  had  heard  enough,  and  I  walked  softly 
away,  and  went  quite  a  distance  from  them,  and  came 
up  in  a  different  direction,  that  they  might  not  mistrust 
that  I  had  heard  their  conversation. 

And  does  the  reader  ask  what  were  my  thoughts  and 
emotions,  while  I  listened  to  this  revelation  ?  They  were 
peculiar,  as  might  well  be  supposed.  At  first,  I  was  not 
a  little  mortified.  It  was  not  very  pleasing  to  learn  that 
another  was  preferred  to  me,  when  our  wedding-day  was 
so  near  at  hand.  For  a  few  minutes  the  green-eyed 
monster  had  such  power  over  me,  that  I  trembled  with 
emotion.  I  soon  got  the  mastery  of  this  unmanly  feeling, 
for  I  knew  that  to  give  way  to  it  was  foolish  and  wrong; 
and  then  my  thoughts  were  not  at  all  painful.  In  fact,  a 
burden  seemed  to  be  removed  and  a  weight  taken  from 
my  heart.  In  a  brief  period  I  had  formed  my  plan  of 
action ;  and  I  walked  rapidly  to  where  they  Isat,  apprizing 
them  of  my  approach  by  a  loud  hem.  They  seemed  a 
little  embarrassed  when  they  saw  me,  but  my  manner 
quickly  reassured  them.  Irene  introduced  me  to  Mary 
Dinneford,  her  cousin,  from  New  Jersey.  I  had  seen 
her  before,  but  had  not  received  an  introduction. 

I  told  them  that  I  had  met  Mr.  Dinneford,  and  he 
had  commissioned  me  to  attend  them  home.  They  arose, 
and  I  offered  an  arm  to  each,  and  we  walked  leisurely 
homeward.  The  evening  was  spent  in  agreeable  conversa 
tion.  When  the  clock  had  struck  ten,  I  signified  to  Irene 


196     A   WALK  IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING. 

that  I  wished  a  private  interview.  She  looked  surprised, 
as  it  was  the  first  evening  of  her  cousin's  visit,  and  we 
had  spent  the  previous  evening  togej^er.  Probably  they 
intended  to  have -had  a  confidential  conversation,  after 
they  retired. 

"  Will  it  be  long?  "  she  inquired,  hesitatingly. 

"  Most  likely,"  I  replied.     "  But  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  answered.  "  I  asked  because  it 
interfered  with  a  previous  arrangement.  But  I  will  make 
it  all  right." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  her  cousin,  and  they  continued 
to  whisper  together  for  some  time.  During  their  conver 
sation  her  parents  withdrew.  Soon  after,  Agnes  followed, 
accompanied  by  Mary.  We  were  now  alone.  I  confess 
I  never  felt  so  much  embarrassed  before,  and  Irene 
seemed  as  much  so  as  I  was.  I  asked  her  to  sing.  She 
complied,  and  sang  a  beautiful  air,  with  words  which,  I 
thought,  very  appropriate  for  the  occasion.  She  now  took 
a  seat  by  my  side  on  the  sofa,  where  we  had  spent  many 
happy  hours.  I  took  her  hand,  and  informed  her  that  I 
had  a  long  story  to  tell  her,  with  which  I  thought  she 
would  be  interested.  She  looked  a  good  deal  puzzled, 
and  I  commenced.  My  story  was  of  Helen  Means  and 
myself.  I  gave  her  an  account  of  our  first  acquaintance, 
the  measures  I  took  to  get  her  out  of  Deacon  Webber's 
hands,  her  dressing  in  boys'  clothes,  sleeping  in  the  woods, 
and,  finally,  being  found  by  my  uncle  and  carried  to  his 


A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING.     197 

home.  I  also  gave  an  account  of  her  sickness,  and  my 
subsequent  removal  to  my  uncle's ;  the  happy  days  we 
had  spent  together;  and  I  closed  with  my  strange  dream. 
In  giving  this  history,  I  dwelt  much  upon  the  merits  of 
Helen, —  her  loving  and  forgiving  spirit,  her  tender  and 
truthful  heart. 

She  listened  with  deep  attention ;  and  when  I  had  fin 
ished  my  narrative,  she  remarked  that  it  was  an  interest 
ing  and  touching  story. 

"  But  why,"  she  asked,  "  have  you  chosen  this  hour 
to  tell  it  to  me?" 

"  Can  you  not  surmise  the  reason?" 

She  looked  at  nWnquiringly,  but  did  not  speak. 

11  Irene,"  I  said,  "  I  will  be  candid  with  you.  I  am 
afraid  that  I  love  Helen  better  than  I  do  you." 

"  I  now  understand  you." 

"Well?" 

"  You  wish  the  engagement  between  us  should  close." 

11  Would  it  not  be  best?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  do  not  love  me." 

"  Is  it  not  in  accordance  with  your  wishes  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  wish  to  marry  you,  if  you  loved 
another." 

"  No.  but  would  you  wish  to  marry  me,  if  I  loved  you 
only?" 

"  Yes." 

17* 


198     A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING. 

*  "  Be  candid,  Irene.  Is  it  the  sincere  desire  of  your 
heart, —  your  whole  heart?  " 

"  Henri,  why  do  you  tisk  such  questions  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  often  noticed,  that  when  we  were 
together,  and  should  have  been  happy,  your  thoughts 
were  elsewhere." 

"  The  same  thing  I  have 'noticed  in  you." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Helen  Means." 

II  Yes."  I 

"  And  where  were  your  thoughts,  Irene  ?  " 
She  was  silent. 

"  Irene,  I  have  been  guilty  of  a  breach  of  etiquette, 
which,  I  fear,  you  will  not  pardon.'* 

II 1  can  tell  better  when  I  know  what  it  is." 
"Certainly." 

"  Will  you  inform  me  ?     Nothing  very  bad,  I  hope." 

cc  You  shall  know.  I  listened  to  your  conversation, 
to-night,  in  the  Park." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Is  it  possible,  Henri?  I  would  not  have  believed 
you  capable  of  it !  " 

"  Sit  down,"  I  said,  "  and  hear  my  justification." 

She  mechanically  obeyed. 

"As  I  approached  you,  I  heard  your  cousin  say,  'And 
yet  you  are  fearful  that  you  do  not  love  him  ? '  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  stopped  to  hear  the  reply  7" 

"No." 


A    WALK   IN    THE    PARK.—  EAVES-DROPPING.      199 

• 

11  You  are  aware  what  followed.  I  despise  an  eaves 
dropper  as  heartily  as  you  can.  But,  had  you  been  in 
my  place,  would  you  have  acted  differently  ?  " 

"  I  think  not." 

11  Then  I  am  forgiven." 

"  You  are." 

"  Thank  you.  Now  Iet0s  come  to  an  understanding. 
The  feeling  must  be  mutual,  that  our  engagement  shall  be 
broken  off." 

She  nodded^assent. 

"Irene,"  I  continued,  somewhat  affected,  "  you  will 
yet  be  happy.  I  believe  that  Ernest  loves  you." 

She  seemed  to  a*wake  suddenly  from  a  painful  revery. 

"0,  do  not  tell  him  what  you  heard  me  say  !  I  beg 
of  you,  Henri !  " 

"  I  will  do  as  you  wish,"  I  replied. 

"  Now  tell  me."  said  she,  looking  at  me  earnestly; 
"  is  not  Helen  Means  a  creature  of  the  imagination  ?  " 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  have  never  heard  you  speak  of  her  before;  and 
I  have  thought,  now  that  I  am  aware  you  heard  our 
conversation  to-night,  that  you  might  have  invented  this 
Helen,  to  show  that  our  intended  marriage  was  as  dis 
tasteful  to  you  as  to  me." 

"  You  are  mistaken, —  I  have  told  you  but  the  truth." 

"  I  am  very  thankful  that  it  is  so.     But,  0  !  how  sad 


200     A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-DROPPING. 

• 

I  feel !  As  I  know  that  you  are  never  to  be  my  hus 
band,  a  sense  of  dreary  loneliness  steals  over  me." 

"I,  too,  feel  sadly;  but  the  shadows  will  not  remain 
long, —  the  morning  sun  will  chase  them  away." 

"  What  will  my  poor  father  say  ?  It  will  almost  break 
his  heart." 

"Leave  it  to  me.  I  kmj?  it  will  be  a  serious  dis 
appointment  to  him ;  but  it  will  come  out  right  in  the 
end." 

"  I  fear  his  displeasure." 

"You  need  not,  if  you  will  let  me  manage  the  whole 
affair.  No  blame  shall  fall  on  you." 

"You  are  ever  generous.  But  can  I  consent  to  let 
you  suffer  for  me  7  No,  no,  Henri  !  You  once  perilled 
your  own  life  to  save  mine ;  and,  when  I  think  of  that 
noble  act,  I  feel  that  I  would  marry  you,  did  I  love 
another  with  my  whole  heart !  " 

"  There  you  are  wrong.  I  simply  did  what  you  would 
do,  if  you  had  the  opportunity." 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  I  will  go  to  my  father,  this  night, 
and  tell  him" all!  " 

"  That  you  must  not  do.  Your  father  is,  most  likely, 
in  a  sound  sleep  now,  and  he  would  not  thank  you  for 
waking  him  at  this  time  of  night  to  hear  a  romantic 
love-story,  I  shall  insist  upon  taking  the  matter  into  my 
own  hands." 

"  Do  as  you  think  best ;  for  your  will  is  stronger  than 


A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK. —  EAVES-  CROPPING.      201 

mine.  0,  Henri !  you  would  have  thought,  by  my  words 
in  the  Park  to-night,  that  this  scene  would  have  relieved 
me  of  a  burden,  and  made  my  heart  light;  and  so  I 
thought,. but  it  was  never  so  sad  before.  My  hopes  have 
so  long  centred  in  you,  that  now  I  feel  alone  !  " 

"  Do  not  indulge  in  such  feelings.  Think  of  Er 
nest  ! "  * 

"0,  do  flbt  mention  him !     He  does  not  love  me." 

"  I  believe  he  does,  and  you  will  soon  learn  the  fact. 
Hereafter,  we  shall  be  as  brother  and  sister  to  each 
other." 

"I  cannot  comprehend  it." 

"  You  will,  ere  long;  so  think  of  the  happy  days  in 
store  for  you." 

I  arose  to  depart.  She  looked  at  me  with  earnest, 
tearful  eyes,  and  then  sprang  into  my  arms,  with  all  the 
impetuosity  of  her  nature,  and  hung  weeping  upon  my 
neck.  My  tears  were  mingled  with  hers.  That  last 
love  embrace  was  long  and  painful,  in  which  were  mingled 
sighs,  tears  and  kisses.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  we 
tore  ourselves  apart.  All  our  old  feelings  seemed  to  have 
concentrated  into  that  moment,  with  three-fold  power.  I 
now  wonder  that  we  did  not  pledge  ourselves  anew.  Had 
either  mentioned  it.  I  doubt  not  we  should  have  done 
so.  It  was  well  that  we  did  not.  I  felt  the  danger  we 
were  in, —  two  such  impulsive  natures  as  ours, —  and  I 


202     A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK.  —  EAVES-DROPPING. 


my  hat  and  hastily  fled  from  the  house,  leaving  Irene 
weeping  upon  the  sofa. 

After  I  had  retired  to  my  bed,  I  had  time  to  collect 
my  thoughts  ;  and  I  felt  that  we  had  done  right,  and  soon 
every  vestige  of  regret  had  fled,  and  I  fell  into  a  calm 
and  refreshing  slumber. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

ERNEST   BROWN. 

THE  ensuing  morning,  when  I  went  into  the  shop,  I 
found  Ernest  looking  pale  and  dejected.  When^lbade 
him  good-morning,  in  a  light  and  happy  tone  of  voice,  he 
regarded  me  for  a  moment  with  a  glance  of  bitter  hatred. 

I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  him  with  a  searching  look,  desir 
ing  to  read  his  heart.     If  it  was  capable  of  harboring  a 
mean  and  contemptible  spirit  of  hatred  towards  one  who 
had  never  sought  to  injure  him,  I  did  not  wish  Irene  to 
become  his  bride.     He  quailed  beneath  my  glance,  his 
eyes  cast  upon  the  floor,  as  if  ashamed  of  himself.     At 
last  he  spoke. 

"  Your  thoughts,  in  relation  to  me,  Mr.  Eaton,  are 
not  very  complimentary,  just  now." 

II  Very  true." 

"  You  are  candid,  and  I  like  you  all  the  better  for  it. 
I  fear  I  have  given  you  some  reason  to  doubt  the  sincerity 
of  my  friendship  ;  so  I  shall  not  complain." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  sensible  of  it,  and  have  the  cour 
age  and  manliness  to  confess  it.  I  think  better  of  you 


204  ERNEST   BROWN. 

"  Thank  you,  and  I  will  try  never  to  give  you  cause 
to  think  evil  of  me  again." 

"  Why  did  you  give  me  such  a  look  of  scorn  and 
contempt,  when  I  greeted  you  with  such  a  whole-hearted 
good-morning  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Why  not?" 

"  0,  Henri !  you  can  never  know  how  intensely  I 
suffe^  For  many  months  before  you  came  to  New 
York,. I  had  a  blissful  waking  dream,  which  now  can 
never  be  realized  !  " 

"  Tell  me  the  dream,  for  perchance  I  may  interpret  it." 

"  Tlje  dream,  and  the  radiant  hopes  it  inspired  me  with 
so  long,  are  locked  in  my  own  heart ;  and  there  shall  they 
sleep  undisturbed  forever  !  " 

These  words  were  spoken  slowly,  in  a  low  but  passion 
ate  tone ;  'his  countenance  clearly  indicating  the  wild 
tumult  which  raged  within  his  breast.  I  knew  that  sleep 
was  not  there.  Hence  I  said, 

"  Sleep  —  undisturbed  —  " 

"No,  no!  I  would  to  God  they  would  sleep, —  die  ! 
but  they  will  not !  " 

•"•It  is  possible,"  I  said,  "  that  I  may  have  the  key 
which  will  unlock  that  heart,  and  bring  the  dream  to  the 
light  of  day,  and  the  hopes  it  inspired  you  with." 

"  Do  not  taunt  me,"  he  said,  fiercely,  "  or  I  may  do 
what  I  shall  be  sorry  for  to  the  end  of  my  life !  "  • 


ERNEST   BROWN.  205 

I  was  somewhat  nettled  by  his  look,  and  the  manner 
in  which  he  uttered  those  words,  and  I  answered, 

"  Most  likely  I  shall  say  what  I  please;  and  violent 
threats  will  not  deter  me  in  the  least." 

"  Beware  how  you  speak,  Mr.  Eaton,  or  I  shall  make 
you  repent  in^ytterness,  though  the  curse  of  the  act 
should  follow  me  to  my  grave  !  " 

"  That  would  be  very  unwise,  to  say  the  least.     You 
know  me,  Ernest,  or  you  would  not  talk  in  that 
ion.     I  fear  you  as  I  do  the  wind  !  " 

"  Do  you  defy  me? " 

"  Just  as  you  please." 

He  came  fiercely  towards  me,  but  suddenly  stop; 
and  looked  earnestly  in  my  face. 

"You  are  not  a  coward?"  I  said,  half  laughing. 
"'Lay  on,  Macduff.' " 

His  eyes  flashed. 

"  I  was  about  to  do  a  foolish  act,"  he  said,  "  and  if 
you  believe  me  to  be  a  coward —  " 

" Well,  what  would  you  do?" 

"  I  know  not." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,  Ernest.     We  are  both  fools." 

"I  did  not  know  that  we  were  so  much  alike,  Henri. 
Give  me  your  hand  !  " 

I  grasped  it  cordially. 

"  We  are  reconciled  now,"  he  remarked.  "  Let  us  be 
friends." 

18 


206  ERNEST   BROWN. 

"  Amen,"  I  responded,  earnestly. 
,  "  We  are  alike  !  "  he  said.  "  But  I  have  suffered  all 
my  days,  while  you  have  lived  happily.  Dark  clouds 
have  ever  lowered  over  my  path,  while  your  sky  has 
been  clear  and  beautiful,  and  your  way  smooth  and 
pleasant."  49 

11  You  are  mistaken,  Ernest.  I  too  have  suffered 
bitterly." 

"Is  it  possible?.  But  your  prospects  are  bright  nqa| 
your  hopes  golden,  while  I  am  in  the  lowest  hell  oT 
despair  !  " 

"Will  you  not  confide  your 'sorrows  to  me,  as  to  a 

«nd  ?  I  may  have-  the  power  to  alleviate  them ;  I  am 
?  I  wish  you  well." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  but  it  is  not  in  your  power, —  not 
in  the  power  of  man  !  " 

He  was  now  fast  relapsing  into  his  usual  state  of  weary 
dulness.  I  was  determined  to  arouse  him ;  and  after  I 
had  left  him  a  sufficient  time  to  commune  with  his  own 
thoughts,  having,  -in  the  mean  time,  entered  some  accounts 
on  the  leger,  I  returned  to  him,  and  remarked,  carelessly, 

"  You  are  aware,  Ernest,  that  I  am  to  be  married 
soon?" 

"lam." 

"  Will  you  and  Miss  Dinneford  act  as  groomsman  and 
bridesmaid  ?  " 

"  No." 


• 

ERNEST  BROWN.  207 


"  Why  not?" 

lie  hesitated. 

"  How  do  I  know  that  it  would  be  agreeable  to 
Agnes?" 

11  Mary  Dinneford  is  here.  I  think  it  would  be  agree 
able  to  her,  or  Agnes  either." 

"  But  it  would  not  td  me." 

"  Will  you  give  me  yo^r  reason  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Your  answer  is  to  the  point,  but  cold  and  bitter. 
You  don't  talk  much  like  a  friend." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  forgive  me  !  " 

"  I  will,  if  you  consent  to  my  wishes." 

"  I  cannot !  Request  me  to  do  anything  else  but 
that,  and  you  shall  be  gratified." 

"  Come,  come,  Ernest;  I  begin  to  think  that  you  envy 
me  Irene. 

'  Curse  your  insolence  !  " 

"  Yeu  forget  we  are  friends." 

"And  so  do  you." 

"You  and  Miss  Dinneford  shall  comply  with  my 
request!  " 

"  She  may;  but  I  will  not,  so  help  me  God  !     You 

have  your  answer  now." 

J  9 

:i  You  have  promised  to  comply  with  any  other  request 
but  that." 

"  And  so  I  will,  if  it  is  reasonable." 


208  EKNBST   BROWN. 

"Always  an  if  in  the  way!  My  request  is  simple, 
and  not  hard  to  be  complied  with.  All  I  ask  of  you  is 
to  marry  Irene  yourself!  " 

He  started  to  his  feet,  and  seemed  to  wrestle  with 
contending  emotions. 

"Henri ! "  he  said,  with  forced  calmness,  "why  tor 
ture  me  thus?  If  you  were  serious  in  desiring  my 
esteem,  my  friendship,  why  sdlk  to  wound  my  feelings, 
and  make  me  hate  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  seek  either,  nor  wish  it.  Would  you  not 
like  to  marry  Irene?  " 

"  No."    • 

"  I  don't  believe  you." 

"  It 's  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference,  sir  !  " 

"  Of  course.  But  I  have  news  for  you.  The  engage 
ment  is  broken  off  between  Irene  Dinneford  and  your 
humble  servant,  Henri  Eaton." 

When  I  uttered  these  words,  he  sprang  towards  me, 
exclaiming,  » 

"  Is  it  so  ?  You  do  not  mean  what  you  say  !  I  would 
to  God  it  were  true  !  But  no,  it  is  only  renewed  tor 
ture  !  Why  do  I  make  a  fool  of  myself  ?  She  is 
nothing  to  me."  * 

"  It  is  true,  nevertheless." 

He  now  came  to  me,  and  took  my  hand  and  held  it 
like  a  vice,  and  said, 

"  Can  this  be  so  ?  Are  you  sincere  in  what  you  say  ?  " 


ERNEST   BROWN.  209 

"  I  am ;  but  what  is  it  to  you  ?  Why  are  you  so 
interested  ?  You  have  just  said  you  had  no  desire  to 
marry  her." 

"  Neither  was  I  willing  to  have  her  become  your  wife." 

"  You  speak  the  truth  now.  But,  as  she  is  nothing  to 
you, —  as  you  do  not  wish  to  make  a  wife  of  her, —  why 
should  you  feel  so  much  interested  ?  " 

He  did  not  seem  to  fancy  this  provoking  raillery,  and 
he  regarded  me  some  time  in  silence.  At  last  he  said, 

"  Henri,  I  believe  you  know  my  heart  as  well  as 
know  it  myself." 

"  On  one  point  I  know  it  well.  You  love  Irene  Din- 
neford." 

"  I  do  !  " 

"  Very  frank.  If  she  returned  your  love,  you  would 
gladly  make  her  your  wife." 

"  Yes,  and  wish  for  no  brighter  heaven  !  " 

"  That  would  be  foolish;  but  you  have  learned  to  speak 
the  truth  at  last,  so  I  see  there  is  some  hopes  of  you. 
Now  set  about  winning  the  heart  of  Irene  ;  for  there  is  no 
obstacle  in  the  way." 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ?  What  was  the  cause  of  it  ? 
Why  are  you  so  ready  to  resign  her  to  me  ?  Do  you 
not  love  her  —  does  she  not  love  you  —  " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  I,  interrupting  him.     "  You  are 
famous  for  asking  questions.     If  you  ask  any  more,  I 
shall  not  remember  half  of  them." 
18* 


210  ERNEST   BROWN. 

"  You  never  truly  loved  Irene,  or  you  could  not  talk 
as  you  do.  0  !  could  I  but  win  her  heart,  I  should  be 

-  half  wild  with  joy  !  " 

"  A  very  easy  matter,  I  should  suppose." 

"  Do  you  think  so?     What  has  she  said?     Does  she 

ever  speak  of  me  ?  " 

' i  Another  long  string  of  queries  !      I   see  you  can 

ask  questions,  if  you  cannot  talk  so  glibly  as  some ;  and 
^the  best  way  for  you  to  get  an  answer  to  them  all   is  to 

*  go  and  ask  Irene  if  she  will  give  you  her  heart  and  hand, 
and  accept  yours  in  exchange." 

"  You  have  no  mercy,  Henri !  But  I  will  do  as  you 
say,  and  if  I  am  rejected  I  shall  not  be  more  miserable 
than  I  have  been.  But  will  her  father  consent  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Her  father  is  in  easy  circumstances,  and  I  know  that 
he  wishes  his  daughters  to  marry  men  of  property.  Not 
that  he  is  particular  about  their  being  very  rich ;  but  he 
would  have  them  in  the  possession  of  a  few  thousands  to 
begin  life  with,  and  I  have  nothing  !  " 

"  But  you  have  a  salary  of  seven  hundred  dollars  a 
year ;  and,  as  economical  as  you  are,  you  must  at  least 
save  half  of  it." 

"  I  do  not  save  one  cent !  " 

"  That  is  strange.     What  can  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  First  tell  me  why  it  is  that  this  engagement,  made 


ERNEST   BROWN.  211 

under  such  favorable  circumstances,  should  have  ended 
so  suddenly." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  wish,  Ernest,  for  it  is  right  that 
you  should  know."  I  briefly  narrated  to  him  the  facts, 
with  which  the  reader  is  already  sufficiently  familiar, 
leaving  out  what  was  said  in  relation  to  him.  He  list 
ened  with  deep  interest,  and  as  though  he  expected  that, 
if  Irene  loved  him,  in  such  a  conversation  she  would  at 
least  have  mentioned  his  name. 

I 

When  I  had  finished,  h^ippeared  disappointed.  "  You 
look  dissatisfied,"  I  remarked;  "  do  not  matters  stand 
as  you  would  have  them  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  said  nothing  in  relation  to  me.  If  she 
had  a  preference  for  me,  she  would  have  said  something 
about  it." 

"  Perhaps  so,  and  perhaps  not ;  but  you  must  remem 
ber  the  proverb.  '  A  faint  heart  never  won  a  fair  lady  ! '  " 

c<  I  will  remember  it.  Now,  if  you  will  listen  patiently, 
I  will  give  you  a  brief  history  of  my  unhappy  life,  ,and 
then  you  will  cease  to  wonder  at  my  sad  dulness,  and 
foolish  diffidence. 

"  I  ain  now  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  my  recollec 
tion  extends  back  to  the  time  when  I  had  seen  but  three 
years.  I  was  but  three  years  old  when  my  sister  Adellah 
died,  who  was  two  years  older  than  I.  I  remember  her 
as  being  a  child  of  a  sweet  disposition,  who  never  tired 
of  playing  with  me,  and  seeking  to  make  me  happy. 


212        •  BKNEST   BROWN. 


She  c  suddenly  ;  and  I  recollect  well  that  my  father 
had  struck  her  a  severe  blow  a  few  days  before,  but  why 
I  knew  not.  Alas,  I  but  too  soon  learned  the  cause  !  I 
looked  at  her  as  she  lay  in  her  little  coffin,  and  her  face 
was  like  marble  ;  the  rose  had  fled  from  her  cheeks,  the 
flaxen  hair  was  combed  smoothly  back,  and  the  laughing 
blue  eyes  were  closed.  Her  fat,  dimpled  hands  were 
folded  upon  her  breast  ;  I  thought  she  looked  sweetly,  as 
she  lay  there,  so  still,  in  that  spotless  white  dress.  Alas  ! 
I  did  not  know  that  it  was  tta  shroud  of  death.  I  put 
my  hand  upon  her  face,  andWwas  cold  as  ice  !  I  could 
not  comprehend  it.  When  they  laid  her  in  the  grave, 
I  was  sorrowful  and  lonely;  they  told  me  she  was  in 
Heaven,  but  I  wanted  her  here.  Why  should  God  take 
her  there  7  She  was  not  necessary  to  His  happiness, 
but  she  was  to  mine. 

"At  this  time  we  lived  in  a  large,  well-furnished 
house,  and  all  our  outward  wants  were  abundantly  sup 
plied.  My  mother  was  a  weakly  woman,  and,  I  fancied, 
very  unhappy.  We  lived  in  a  country  village,  and  my 
father  kept  store.  I  soon  began  to  notice  that  he  was 
very  different  at  times  :  to-day,  good-natured,  speaking 
kindly  to  mother,  and  bestowing  a  kiss  on  me  ;  to-mor 
row,  moody  and  cross.  The  dinner  was  not  half  cooked, 
and  the  supper  spoiled.  I  was  afraid  to  go  near  him  ; 
for  he  sometimes  struck  me,  or  pushed  me  roughly  on 
to  the  floor.  When  he  would  leave  the  house,  my  mother 


ERNEST   BROWN.  213 

would  sit  down  and  weep,  as  though  her  heart  would 
break.  How  often  have  I  put  my  hands  around  her 
neck,  and  begged  her  to  tell  me  why  she  cried  !  She 
would  kiss  me,  and  say,  c  Poor  Ernest !  don't  ask  me 
now ;  you  are  too  young  yet.  Alas  !  that  you  should 
ever  know.' 

"  Adellah  had  been  dead  but  a  few  months,  when  a 
little  tiny  thing  was  brought  to  me,  one  morning,  as  I 
lay  in  my  bed,  and  I  was  told  that  God  had  sent  me  an 
other  sister.  How  thankful  I  was  !  My  young  heart 
was  brimfull  of  joy  ;  now  I  should  be  happy  again. 
That  young  dream  was  never  fulfilled ;  for  the  horrid 
truth  soon  forced  itself  upon  me,  that  my  father  was  a 
drunkard  !  I  but  half  realized  my  misfortune  then  ; 
but,  to  my  deeply  sensitive  nature,  it  was  enough  to 
make  the  world,  bright  and  lovely  as  it  is,  look  dark. 
It  would  have  darkened  paradise  ! 

*vPut  your  hand  upon  my  head ;  you  see  I  have  but 
little  reverence.  The  reason  why  veneration  is  so  small, 
is  because  I  never  loved  and  reverenced  a  father.  I 
could  not  love  him,  for  he  was  not  always  kind  and 
gentle  to  his  children,  as  a  father  should  be ;  he  abused 
my  mother,  and  almost  broke  her  heart,  ere  the  calamity 
happened  which  stripped  us  of  all  we  possessed.  Parents 
complain  of  the  want  of  reverence  in  their  children ;  who 
is  to  blame?  Let  them  conduct  themselves  in  such  a 
manner  that  their  children  cannot  help  loving  and  vener- 


214  ERNEST   BROWN. 

ating  them,  and  then  will  they  reverence  the  aged,  God, 
and  all  good.  How  could  I  have  reverence  for  men  or 
God,  when  my  father  was  intemperate  'I  The  little  child 
sees  his  heavenly  Father  through  his  earthly  parent,  as 
we  look  through  nature  up  to  nature's  God,  But  I  am 
moralizing ;  and  it  is  no  wonder,  when  I  have  so  suffered 
from  the  eifects  of  intemperance,  and  have  seen  so  much 
ruin  caused  by  the  accursed  vice.  Hours  and  hours 
have  I  dwelt  upon  this  theme,  and  thought  how  different 
would  have  been  my  life,  if  my  father  had  not  been  a 
drunkard, —  how  different  I  should  have  been, —  how 
much  misery  I  should  have  escaped,  and  happiness  en 
joyed/' 

"It  is  not  well,"  I  remarked,  "to  let  your  mind 
dwell  upon  such  painful  subjects." 

"  You  are  right,  and  I  have  done  it  too  long;  but  I 
will  briefly  tell  you  all,  and  try  to  think  less  of  them 
hereafter.  When  I  was  five  years  old  another  child  was 
born,  a  little  girl,  who  afterwards  resembled  Adeilah  ; 
but  she  was  a  pale,  weakly  thing,  and  she  remained 
with  us  but  a  few  years.  Soon  after  her  birth,  I  was 
told,  by  my  weeping  mother,  that  my  father  had  failed ; 
I  did  not  know  what  failing  meant,  but  I  was  certain 
that  a  great  calamity  had  befallen  us.  We  soon  after 
removed  to  an  unclapboarded  house,  containing  only 
three  small  and  unfinished  rooms ;  our  carpets,  our  nice 
chairs,  our  best  beds  and  looking-glasses,  were  all  gone. 


ERNEST   BROWN.  215 

0;  how  desolate  ailpgloomy  seemed  that  old  house  !  I 
shall  never  forget,  to  my  dying  day,  how  woe- begone  my 
mother  looked,  as  she  entered  that  building,  with  little 
Laura  in  her  arms.  '  0  my  God  !  '  she  cried,  '  little 
did  I  dream  that  I  should  ever  come  to  this  ! '  We  had 
but  few  comforts  now,  and  the  world  looked  drear 
enough. 

"  My  father,  instead  of  forsaking  his  cups,  and  trying 
to  retrieve  his  fallen  fortunes,  sank  rapidly  to  the  lowest 
depths  of  the  detestable  inebriate  ;  he  worked  at  different 
places,  spending  part  of  his  earnings  for  rum,  and  with 
the  rest  buying  the  cheapest  and  coarsest  articles  of  food. 
My  mother,  who  was  keenly  sensitive  and  high-spirited, 
labored  bard  to  keep  her  children  looking  clean  and 
decent.  Two  other  children  were  afterwards  added  to 
our  family,  both  boys.  Father  became  bloated  and 
ragged,  and  as  selfish  as  sin ;  intemperance  bloated  and 
swelled  his  body,  but  shrivelled  up  his  soul.  He  wanted 
so  much  money  for  rum,  that  he  was  ever  anxious  that 
his  children  should  not  consume  any  more  food  than 
nature  required.  This,  arid  other  things,  made  us  as 
voracious  as  swine  ;  and  we*  all  became  selfish  and  mean, 
each  one  striving  to  get  the  largest  share  o^he  poor  food 
provided  for  us. 

"I  tremble  to  think  what  we  might  have  been,  if  we 
had  not  hjid  a  good  mother,  who  carefully  looked  after  our 
welfare,  and  sought  to  instil  good  principles  into  our 


216  ERNEST   BROWN. 

minds.  Our  home  was,  neverthelS,  often  the  scene  of 
bitter  altercations,  and  mutual  upbraidings,  until  I  came 
to  dread  my  father's  approach  ;  the  dull  echo  of  his 
heavy  footsteps  fell  upon  my  young  heart  like  the  death- 
knell  to  happiness.  How  horrid  is  the  thought  that  a 
father  should  so  conduct  himself  as  to  make  his  presence 
hateful  to  his  children ! 

"  I  soon  learned,  and  to  my  sorrow,  that  the  sins  of 
the  father  were  visited  upon  his  children  in  a  way  tha,t 
made  my  life  a  still  greater  burden ;  my  play-mates  and 
school-mates  looked  down  upon  me.  0,  heavens !  I 
knew  they  regarded  me  as  a  drunkard's  child;  I  felt 
that  the  finger  of  scorn  was  pointed  at  me,  and  it 
burnt  into  my  heart  as  though  it  had  been  fire  !  I 
quailed  beneath  it,  and  could  no  longer  hold  up  my  head. 
The  more  I  bent  under  the  heavy  weight  that  was  laid 
upon  me,  the  more  was  I  scorned.  You  have  a  nature 
keenly  sensitive,  Henri,  and  you  may  judge  what  I  suf 
fered.  I  was  naturally  very  fond  of  the  beautiful ;  every 
flower  talked  to  me,  and  every  tree  waved  me  a  welcome, 
and  looked  compassionately  upon  me,  as  if  bending  in 
benediction.  I  gazed  into  the  blue  sky  by  day  and  by 
night,  and  l<^ed  it ;  for  all  its  starry  eyes  beamed  with 
holy  smiles.  I  delighted  to  quench  my  spirit's  thirst 
with  the  airy  waters  which  floated  in  light  and  beauty 
in  the  limitless  ocean  above  me.  But  I  could  not  live 
on  these  alone ;  what  little  child  can  ?  I  craved  the  love, 


ERNEST   BROWN.  217 

I 

and  sympathy,  and  respect,  of  my  fellow-beings;  I 
wanted  to  be  on  an  equality  with  children  of  my  own 
age.  But  of  what  avail  was  this  wish  in  my  young  and 
bleeding  heart  ?  How  could  I  be  considered  equal,  when 
I  was  so  poor,  and  my  father  a  drunkard  ?  I  could  not 
dress  like  them, —  I  had  not  books,  as  they  had.  Curse 
them  !  They  have  spit  upon  me,  to  show  their  con 
tempt  !  How  often  have  I  wished  for  a  lightning-bolt, 
that  I  might  crush  th^pa,  and  be  revenged  !  Had  I  been 
made  of  sterner  stuff,  and  possessed  a  less  sensitive 
nature,  I  might  have  escaped  much  of  this,  and  returned 
scorn  for  scorn,  insult  for  insult,  and  blow  for  blow ;  but, 
as  it  was,  I  suffered  with  an  intensity  corresponding  with 
my  sensitiveness.  The  poisonous  tooth  of  scorn  eat 
into  my  heart's  core,  and  the  fountain  of  life  was  made 
bitter  as  gall.  0  God  !  the  time  came  when  not  a  star 
smiled  for  me, —  not  a  spire  of  grass  sprung  up  to  carpet 
my  rough  and  uneven  way, —  not  a  flower  tossed  to  me 
a  fragrant  kiss  with  its  rosy  fingers,  and  the  bow  in  the 
clouds,  with  its  seven  beautiful  colors,  embracing  the 
earth,  as  the  seven  attributes  of  the  Almighty  encircle 
the  children  of  His  love,  had  no  attractive  loveliness  for 
me ;  all  was  dark,  dismal,  and  black  as  death !  The 
light  which  had  shone  for  me,  when  a  little  child,  had 
grown  fainter  and  fainter,  until  the  flickering  blaze  had 
expired. 

"When  my  sister  Laura  died  I  shed  no  tears,  for  I 
19 


218  ERNEST  BROWN. 

| 

never  wept  now ;  yet  still  I  mourned  her  loss,  but  at 
the  same  time  I  thought  how  much  better  it  was  for  her 
than  to  live,  and  suffer  as  I  did.  One  of  the  most 
harrowing  thoughts  which  contiriually  beset  me  was,  that 
people  looked  upon  me  as  little  better  than  a  fool ;  I  fan 
cied  they  regarded  me  as  a  half-witted  boy.  So  much 
did  I  dwell  upon  this,  that  there  were  times  when 
I  thought  they  were  right.  '  Surely,'  thought  I,  '  I 
am  not  like  other  children.  I  a^n  imposed  upon  daily. 
Why  should  I  be,  if  I  am  not  a  fool  ? '  0,  what 
thoughts  were  these  !  How  they  racked  my  brain,  and 
lay  like  lead  upon  my  heart ! 

"  All  this  time  there  were  deep  feelings  in  my  breast, 
intense  as  the  burning  rays  of  the  meridian  sun,  in 
July's  hottest  days.  There  were  passions  sleeping  like 
lava  fires,  and  sympathies  w.arm  and  truthful,  which  had 
often  broken  the  icy  wall  around  them,  and  leaped  forth, 
like  the  torrent  down  the  mountain-side ;  but  so  cold,  so 
freezing,  was  their  reception,  that  they  were  ever  sent 
back,  quivering  and  gasping,  upon  my  heart !  My 
mother  still  loved  me,  and  labored  for  my  good;  and 
this  was  one  bright  spot  in  my  dark  life.  What  should 
I  not  have  become,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  ?  I  ain 
mistaken  !  The  world  was "  not  all  dark,  all  sorrow,  all 
gloom.  One  star  did  shine  for  me  ! 

"  When  I  was  twelve  I  was  sent  away  from  home  to 
live  with  those  who  had  no  sympathy  for  me,  nor  I  for 


ERNEST  BROWN.  219 

them.  I  could  not  please  them,  for  they  did  not  under 
stand  my  nature.  They  treated  me  decently  well,  and 
worked  me  beyond  my  strength.  It  was  torture  to  me, 
for  I  had  no  heart  in  it.  My  father's  career  was  still 
downward,  and  his  family  continued  to  suifer  more  and 
more.  One  after  another  of  the  children  died,  until  none 
were  left  but  Mary  and  me ;  she  was  the  one  born  soon 
after  the  death  of  Adellah.  When  I  was  sixteen,  my 
father  died ;  I  did  not  wish  him  to  die,  and  yet  I  was 
not  sorry  when  the  cold  earth  shut  him  from  my  sight 
forever ! 

"  The  support  of  my  mother  and  sister  now  devolved 
upon  me.  I  did  not  shrink  from  the  Hsponsibility,  but 
removed  them  far  away  from  the  harrowing  scenes 
through  which  we  had  passed,  and  commenced,  as  it  were, 
a  new  life.  My  mother's  health  was  completely  broken 
down,  and  God  knows  why  she  lived  through  so  much 
trouble.  Mary  nursed  her  with  a  daughter's  affection 
ate  care,  and  the  fruit  of  my  labors  brought  us  a  decent 
support.  I  began  once  more  to  hold  up  my  head ;  but  a 
diffidence  and  reserve  hung  about  me,  which  I  could  not 
shake  off,  and  I  never  have  to  this  day.  I  am  sorrowful, 
but  I  never  weep ;  I  am  joyful,  yet  there  is  still  bitter 
ness.  Nature  has  once  more  opened  her  stores  of  beauty, 
and  she  -has  bid  me  select  the  richest  gems,  without 
money  and  without  price.  The  heavens  look  down  upon 


220  ERNEST   BKOWN. 

me  in  love,  the  flowers  spring  up  smiling  at  my  feet,  and 
every  little  child  gives  me  a  kindly  glance. 

"  I  loved  Irene  Dinneford,  the  first  time  I  saw  her ;  and 
when  I  thought  that  she  was  lost  to  me  forever,  I  was 
fearful  that  thick  gloom  would  once  more  shroud  the  uni 
verse.  Could  I  but  have  the  assurance  that  she  loves  me 
with  that  absorbing  passion  with  which  I  love  her,  I 
believe  I  should  be  a  different  being  ;  —  the  long  pent-up 
emotions  would  gush  forth,  the  ice  around  my  heart 
would  melt,  and  I  should  joy  to  weep  once  more. 

"  You  wonder  why  I  did  not  declare  my  love.  I  could 
not.  I  thought  of  my  poverty,  of  those  who  were 
depending  upon  fne  for  support,  and  I  felt  that  I  should 
'be  rejected.  I  would  rather  dream  on.  I  would  not 
darken  so  fair  a  heaven.  I  knew  that  a  respectable  young 
man  had  offered  his  hand  to  Agnes,  and  her  father  had 
persuaded  her  to  reject  him  on  account  of  his  poverty. 
What  could  I  expect  ?  " 

"  He  could  not  so  persuade  Irene,"  I  remarked. 

"  I  have  often  thought  so,  but  I  had  not  sufficient  self- 
confidence.  You  may  judge,  Henri,  what  were  my  feel 
ings,  when  I  learned  that  you  were  engaged  to  her.  I 
cursed  you,  in  the  bitterness  of  my  heart.  Then  I  felt 
how  unjust  I  was,  and  what  mean  thoughts  were  festering 
and  cankering  in  my  breast.  I  watched  you  closely,  and 
I  soon  convinced  myself  that  you  did  not  love  Irene  with 
that  intense  devotion  of  which  a  nature  like  yours  or  mine 


ERNEST  BROWN.  221 

IB  capable.  That  your  regard  for  her  was  what  the  world 
would  call  love,  I  had  no  doubt ;  but  that  it  was  not  true 
conjugal  affection,  1  was  well  persuaded.  I  speculated 
much  as  to  what  her  feelings  were  for  you ;  but  I  ever 
felt  there  was  more  of  respect  than  love.  0,  how 
ardently  I  wished  that  I  could  have  been  the  one  to  have 
saved  her,  when  her  life  was  in  peril !  Then  bitter 
thoughts  would  canker  in  my  heart  again,  and  I  would 
curse  my  unhappy  fate.  I  sometimes  wished  that  you 
might  prove  to  be  a  villain,  seeking  her  ruin,  and  I 
might  be  made  the  instrument  to  save  her  from  your 
hands  !  I  acknowledge  the  meanness,  the  baseness  and 
the  depravity,  of  these  thoughts ;  but  they  would  spring 
up  in  my  breast,  like  noxious  weeds  in  a  bed  of  flowers, 
—  I  could  not  keep  them  down.  My  mother  has  now 
almost  entirely  regained  her  health,  and  Mary  is  to  be 
married  in  a  few  weeks.  When  I  visit  my  mother,  she 
looks  so  well,  so  contented  and  happy.  I  feel  that  my  life 
has  not  been  in  vain.  There  is  one  bright  spot.  A 
retrospective  glance  is  painful ;  but  that  one  green  spot 
is  beautiful  to  the  eyes  of  my  ever  weary  spirit,  even 
though  it  be  enriched  with  tears  that  fall  only  from  the 
heart  !  " 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  Ernest."  I  said,  greatly  affected 
by  this  narrative,  by  which  a  bleeding  heart  was  laid  bare 
before  my  eyes  ;  "  and  forgive  me  for  the  words  which  I 
19* 


222  ERNEST  BROWN. 

uttered  just  now,  when  half  angry.  I  knew  you  not,  or 
I  should  not  have  spoken  as  I  did." 

"  I  have  as  much  reason  to  ask  forgiveness  as  you." 

11 1  think  not;  for  my  object  was  to  irritate  you,  and 
then  cancel  my  wickedness  by  telling  you  good  news.  I 
also  suffered  in  my  younger  days,  and  keenly  too,  or  I 
should  not  be  so  passionate  as  I  am.  Ernest,  you  will 
yet  be  happy." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  prophecy ;  but  it  seems  almost 
impossible.  My  life  has  hitherto  been  so  dark,  so  hope 
less,  it  is  difficulfc  to  persuade  myself  that  the  future  shall 
be  bright.  But,  were  I  convinced  that  Irene  loved  me, 
I  should  doubt  no  more." 

"  What  if  her  parents  should  prove  to  be  an  obstacle 
in  the  way  ?  " 

"  That  would  be  a  misfortune ;  but  it  would  not  destroy 
my  felicity,  for  I  should  still  have  her  love,  and,  with 
that,  I  would  defy  the  darkest  storms  of  adversity  !  I 
should  no  more  be  alone ;  but  my  heart,  long  estranged, 
would  have  something  to  cling  to.  They  might  separate 
us, —  the  ocean  might  roll  between  us, —  but  I  should  still 
be  conscious  that  I  was  not  alone!  Our  spirits  would 
meet, —  our  thoughts  leap  over  the  wide  ocean,  as  light 
leaps  from  star  to  star  !  I  do  not  believe  it  possible  to 
separate  those  who  love  ; — death  cannot  do  it !  " 

"  You  are  more  eloquent  than  I  supposed  it  possible 
for  you  to  be.  You  remind  me  of  rain,  after  a  drouth ; 


ERNEST   BROWN.  223 

when  it  once  begins  to  fall,  there  is  little  cessation,  until 
the  earth  is  watered  and  the  springs  all  full.  I  see  that 
the  ice  is  breaking  up,  and  sweet  spring  is  coming.  But 
you  nave  a  curious  theory  in  relation  to  lovers.  Accord 
ing  to  your  idea,  they  cannot  be  separated.  Place  oceans 
between  you  and  those  you  love,  and  you  would  feel 
differently." 

"  Can  you  make  the  flowers  look  unlovely  ?  Can  you 
darken  the  eyes  of  the  stars  ?  Can  you  steal  away  the 
tints  of  the  rainbow  ?  Can  you  sever  the  chain  that  links 
humanity  to  its  God  ?  No  !  And  you  cannot  separate 
the  spirits  of  those  whose  beings  are  one.  They  bid 
defiance  to  time,  space,  eternity  !  " 

Our  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  customers.  Mr.  Dinneford  came  soon .  after,  and  we 
did  not  resume  it  again. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

MR.    DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL  LOVE. 

IN  the  afternoon,  I  asked  Mr.  Dinneford  if  he  would 
take  a  walk  on  the  Battery.  He  readily  assented,  and 
thither  we  directed  our  steps.  It  was  a  lovely  day,  and 
many  had  walked  out  to  enjoy  it,  and  breathe  the  fresh 
air,  and  let  it  beattfcll  and  strong  against  their  cheeks, 
pale  and  sallow  from  long  confinement  in  doors.  The 
children,  rolling'  their  hoops  and  running  and  shouting, 
seemed  the  happiest  of  the  happy. 

As  soon  as  I  could  summon  sufficient  courage,  I 
broached  the  subject  on  my  mind. 

"  I  have  invitedr  you  here,"  I  said,  "  to  speak  on  a 
subject  which,  under  the  circumstances,  must  be  painful 
to  us  both." 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  Is  the  partnership  business  dis 
tasteful  to  you?" 

"  It  is." 

"Why  so?" 

"J  Apt  like  the  mercantile  business,  and  I  have 
determined  to  leave  it." 

"  You  ought  to  have  known  that  a  month  ago." 


ME.    DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL   LOVE.  225 

11 1  did  know  it;  and  the  reason  why  I  consented  to 
this  partnership  was  because  —  I  —  expected  to  —  to  — 
marry  —  Irene." 

"You  expected!  And  do  you  not  expect  to  marry 
her  now,  pray?  " 

"  To  be  candid  with  you,  Mr.  Dinneford,  I  do  not." 

"  Are  you  joking,  Henri,  or  do  you  say  what  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  what  I  have  said." 

'"  I  am  astonished!     But  why   is  this?     What  has 
happened,  to  change  your  mind,  after  the  day  was  set?  " 

"  We  made  the  discovery  that  we  did  not  love  each 
other." 

"  A  wonderful  discovery,  truly  !  It  is  all  Greek  to 
me.  Are  you  sure  that  Irene  does  not  love  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  she  does  not." 

"  A  very  ridiculous  affair  !  A  courtship  commenced 
under  the  most  romantic  circumstances,  the  day  set  for  the 
wedding,  and  a  partnership  entered  into  with  the  father  ; 
and,  after  all,  the  parties  do  not  love  each  othen^.  Very 
strange, —  very  incomprehensible  !  " 

"  And  yet,  I  trust,  you  believe  it." 

11 1  suppose  I  must,  since  you  say  so.  But,  if  you 
have  not  loved  each  other,  you  are  both  consummate 
hypocrites  ! " 

"  A  harsh  judgment." 

"  Not  a  whit  too  harsh.     Have  n't  you  been  billing 


226  MR.    DINNEFOED. —  MUTUAL   LOVE. 

and  cooing,  these  two  or  three  months, —  never  satisfied 
unless  together?  Why  should  you  both  manifest  so 
much  love,  if  you  did  not  possess  it?  " 

"  We  tried  to  love,  but  could  not." 

"  Most  likely  I  shall  believe  you, —  two  young  people 
so  well  fitted  for  each  other !  There  is  some  mystery 
about  this  sudden  freak.  I  don't  understand  it  at  all." 

"  It  does  look  strange,  I  acknowledge,  but  no  ir.ore 
strange  than  true.  My  affections  are  placed  upon  another, 
and  so  are  Irene's." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  mystery  will  be  cleared  up,  some 
time  ;  but  it  looks  dark  now,  and  will  be  a  severe  disap 
pointment  to  me  and  my  family." 

11  That  is  what  we  both  most  regretted." 

"  Did  Irene  speak  of  that  ?' " 

"Yes,  and  she  feared  that  you  would  chide  her 
angrily,  and  the  thought  made  her  very  unhappy ;  for 
she  said  that  an  angry  word  she  had  never  heard  you 


a  good  girl,  and  I  will  not  be  angry  with  her. 
In  losing  her,  Henri,  you  lose  a  treasure,  worth  more 


"  I  know  her  worth  well.     You  have   reason  to  be 
proud  of  her." 

"  And  yet  you  give  her  up  without  one  regret  !  " 
"  No,  no  !  —  but  I  —  I  am  attached  to  another." 
"  Who  is  the  favored  one  ?  I  think  I  ought  to  know." 


MR.    DINNEFORD.  —  MUTUAL   LOVE.  227 

"  A  young  girl  whom  I  delivered  from  a  brutal  mas 
ter,  by  stratagem.  She  was  but  eleven  years  old  then." 

"  Your  first  love,  I  suppose.  I  wish  you  had  found  it 
out  before.  Perhaps  you  may  find  one  or  two  more  you 
have  benefited  in  a  similar  way ;  if  so,  woe  to  the  one 
who  has  your  affections  now  !  " 

11  You  are  not  candid.  I  can  never  love  another  as  I 
love  her." 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  very  sure  of  it  before  you  again 
set  the  day  to  be  married,  or  form  another  partnership." 

"I  shall." 

"  Did  you  say  Irene  had  formed  an^attachment  for 
some  one  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  Are  you  at  liberty  to  give  me  his  name  ?  " 

"Yes  —  no, —  but  I  Suppose  I  may,  without  doing 
wrong.  It  is  Ernest  Brown." 

"  Ernest  Brown  !  I  am  surprised  more  and  more.  Are 
you  certain  of  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  It  does  not  look  likely  to  me  that  she  would  prefer 
him  to  you ;  but  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes." 

"  Love  will  go  where  it  is  sent,  you  know." 

"  So  I  should  think.  What  are  his  feelings  towards 
her?" 

"  The  same  as  hers  towards  him." 

"  This   state   of  things    I   regret.      Ernest   is   well 


228  MR.    DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL   LOVE. 

enough  ;  but  he  is  not  such  a  man  as  I  should  have 
chosen  for  Irene, —  he  would  do  better  for  Agnes.  " 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir;  you  don't  know  Ernest." 

"  You  may  be  right,  but  he  is  very  poor." 

."  He  has  a  noble  mind  and  soul ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
not  withhold  your  approval  on  account  of  his  poverty." 

"  I  would  like  to  know  what  he  does  with  his  salary." 

"Supports  a  sick  mother,  and  a  sister  who  takes  care 
of  her ;  —  what  nobler  use  could  he  make  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  inquire  into  this  matter  ;  and,  if  what  you  say 
is  true,  I  will  not  be  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  their  hap 
piness.  If  Erlftst  has  been  the  dutiful  son  you  have 
represented  him  to  be,  I  shall  be  proud  to  own  him  as  my 
daughter's  husband.  Far,  better  that  she  should  marry 
a  virtuous  poor  man  than  a  vicious  rich  one." 

We  here  fell  in  with  a  gent^nan  of  Mr.  Dinneford's 
acquaintance,  and  they  having  some  business  matters  to 
talk  over,  I  went  to  the  shop.  There  were  no  custom 
ers  in,  and  I  told  Mr.  Brown  that  he  might  be  as  expedi 
tious,  as  he  pleased,  for  all  things  were  favorable, —  so  he 
had  better  strike  while  the  iron  was  hot. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  What  do  I  mean  ?  Why,  how  dull  you  are,  Ernest ! 
Are  you  not  aware  that  the  heaven,  which  you  would  not 
have  any  brighter,  if  you  could,  can  now  be  gained  by  a 
little  effort  ?" 

"  You  are  real  heartless,  to  joke  in  that  way." 


MB.    DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL  LOVE.  229 

c :  I  am  not  joking ;  but  I  want  you  to  take  time  by  the 
fore-lock, —  that  is  all."  * 

"  Please  explain  yourself." 

"Well,  some  folks  are  stupid.  What  I  mean  is  simply 
this :  you  must  go  and  see  Irene,  and  declare  your  love." 

"  Don't  call  me  stupid,  for  I  am  rather  sensitive  on 
that  point.  The  joke  has  too  much  truth  in  it.  But 
when  must  I,  most  excellent  master,  do  the  thing  which 
you  require  at  my  hands?" 

"  To-night ;  this  very  evening." 

"  I  shall  not  obey." 

"Why  not?" 

"It  was.  but  last  evening  that  your  engagement  termi 
nated.  She  would  not  wish  to  form  another  so  soon. 
Nor  would  she  suppose  that  I  knew  anything  about  it,  and 
she  would  think  me  very 'presumptuous.  It  would  show  a 
lack  of  delicacy,  on  my  part,  to  broach  the  subject  now." 

"  Well,  do  as  you  think  best ;  but  I  should  not  wait." 

"  You  always  go  on  the  high-pressure  principle ;  but  I 
cannot." 

In  a  few  days  after  this,  I  wrote  to  Helen  Means, 
informing  her  that  my  engagement  with  Irene  had  come 
to  an  end.  and  that  I  should  soon  return  home. 

One  morning,  about  two  weeks  from  the  time  we  held 
our  last  conversation,  when  Ernest  came  into  the  shop  I 
could  but  gaze  upon  him  with  surprise.  I  was  looking 
20 


230  MR.   DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL  LOVE. 

for  a  change  sometime,  but  not  one  so  great  as  his  coun 
tenance  indicated.  4* 

His  pale  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  his  dull  eyes  flashed 
with  a  radiant  brightness.  They  seemed  to  be  illumined 
by  a  wild  light,  softened  by  the  presence  of  pure  joy  and 
unalloyed  happiness.  As  I  looked  at  his  beaming  coun 
tenance,  I  felt  that  the  long  imprisoned  spirit  had  been 
released  from  its  bondage.  0  !  what  agpower  there  is  in 
love  to  make  the  darkest  skies  bright,  the  -most  hopeless 
lot  beautiful  as  a  smiling  landscape  on  a  summer's  morn ! 
Those  who  truly  love  are  invincible.  This  solidarity  of 
hearts  renders  them  impervious  to  the  world's  scorn  or 
hate.  Rather,  I  should  say,  renders  it;  for  the  two  make 
but  one.  Separate  and  alone,  we  are  fractions,  exposed  to 
many  temptations  and  adversities ;  we  are  weak,  and 
when  the  storms  of  life  beat  upon  us  we  bend  beneath 
them  in  bitter  agony,  unable  to  stand  up  and  face  them 
manfully.  United,  we  become  entire,  —  the  two  make 
one,  and  the  weakness  becomes  power  ;  like  a  three-fold 
cord,  it  cannot  be  broken.  The  strength  of  the  two 
becomes  the  strength  of  the  one ;  their  powrers  melt  arid 
mingle  together  and  consolidate,  and,  though  soft  as  the 
petals  of  a  rose,  they  are  harder  than  the  rock.  Soft  to 
humanity's  touch,  but  to  the  cold  fingers  of  misfortune 
and  injustice  hard  as  flint. 

I  rallied  Ernest  on  his  improved  appearance,  telling 


MR.    DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL   LOVE.  231 

him,  however,  that  he  had  looked  the  misanthrope,  but 
now  the  maniac. 

"I  shall  not  crave  your  mercy,"  he  replied;  "  for  I 
have  a  shield  now  that  will  render  all  your  shafts  imper 
vious." 

"  The  shield  of  love,  perchance.  Much  good  may  it 
do  you  !  How  many  hours  did  you  sleep,  last  night?  " 

"I  will  tell  you  when  you  inform  me  what  right  you 
have  to  ask  such  questions  ? ' ' 

"  Of  course  you  understand  what  right  I  have.  I  am 
your  good  genius,  you  know." 

"  I  had  forgotten  that  fact ;  but  what  right  has  my  good 
genius  to  ask  saucy  questions  ?  " 

"  Saucy  questions  !  You  are  improving  very  fast.  I 
see  that  people  change  with  circumstances.  But  how 
about  those  tears, —  was  there  a  ^regular  deluge  ?  I  fancy 
that  I  can  trace  the  course  of  the  torrents,  which  rushed 
with  mighty  inpetuosity  over  your  face." 

u  Come,  come,  that  will  do.  I  am  happier  than  I  was, 
and  I  believe  that  .my  cup  will  yet  be  bfimming  with  joy." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Thank  you.  I  thought,  soon  after  you  came  here, 
that  you  would  prove  a  deadly  curse  to  me ;  but,  instead 
of  that,  although  your  presence  has  caused  me  hours  of 
sorrow,  it  has  been  all  for  the  'best,  for  you  have  been  the 
means  Of  doing  me  great  good." 


232  MR.    DINNEFORD. —  MUTUAL   LOVE. 

{C  But  greater  injury,  I  fear;  but  I  am  willing  to  square 
accounts." 

"  So  am  I;  and  may  you  be  as  happy  as  I  now  hope  to 
be!" 

"  0,  I  shall  be ;  never  fear  for  me ! " 

"  You  speak  with  assurance,  and  I  hope  you  will  not 
be  disappointed." 

"I  hope  so,  too.  Depend  upon  it,  Ernest,  the  future 
has  bright  skies  and  sunshine  for  us  both." 


- 
* 


CHAPTER    XX. 

DEATH    OF   MY   MOTHER. 

I  NOW  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Ernest  and  Irene 
frequently  together.  It  made  me  happier  and  better,  to 
see  how  happy  they  were.  In  feelings,  hopes  and  sympa 
thies,  they  were  one.  I  knew  that  their  union,  should  it 
ever  take  place,  would  be  a  true  one ;  for  the  silbin  chain 
of  love  had  so  bound  them  that  death  itself  could  not 
sever  it.  They  did  not  manifest  so  much  sickly  senti 
mentality  that  they  might  be  called,  as  a  quaint  writer 
has  expressed  it,  "a  couple  of  lumps  of  love;  "  and  yet 
you  could  see  that  love  was  the  attraction  that  drew  them 
together,  and  made  them  one.  And  therein  was  union, 
devotion,  self-sacrifice,  truth,  honor,  and  JM^ty  as  joyous 
as  heaven.  Marriage  without  such  love,^s  but  a  tragic 
farce. 

At  the  request  of  Mr.  Dinneford,  Ernest  gave  him  a 
truthful  account  of  his  life,  which  showed  his  character 
in  its  true  light. 

"  You  have  suffered  so  much,"  said  he,  "  that  God  for 
bid  that  I  should  stand  in  the  way  of  your  happiness  !  " 

The  moody  dulness  and  diffidence  of  Mr.  Brown 
gradually  wore  away,  as  the  fogs  leave  the  valleys 
^  20* 


234  DEATH    OF   MY   MOTHER. 

when  the  sun  pours  its  rays  down  upon  them,  causing 
them  to  creep  up  their  sides,  and  disappear  over  the  moun 
tain  tops.  The  sun  of  love  now  shone  around  him,  dis 
persing  the  shadows  of  a  woful  life. 

I  now  determined  to  remain  in  New  York  until  the 
time  had  expired  for  which  I  had  bargained.  Ernest, 
instead  of  leaving  on  the  first  of  January,  renewed  his 
engagement  for  another  year,  his  salary  being  increased 
two  hundred  dollars.  "When  my  time  had  nearly  expired, 
I  received  the  following  letter  from  brother  Thomas  : 
- 

"I  feel  it  a  duty,  my  brother,  to  inform  you  that 
"  mother  is  sinking  rapidly.  She  has  not  long  to  live 
"  in  this  world.  She  does  not  speak  of  you  ;  and  yet  I 
"  know  she  would  be  glad  to  see  you.  She  has  not 
"set  eyes  upon  you  for  a  number  of  years,  and  it 
1 '  must  be  a  relief  to  her  overburdened  heart  to  see 
"  you  once  IJjf-  Be  sure  and  come.  You  need  not 
"  fear  the  deacon,  for  you  are  a  man  now.  No  doubt, 
"  when  you  see  him,  you  will  love  him  as  well  as  you  ever 
"  did.  And  why  should  you  not  love  your  venerable 
"father  ?  The  deacon  is  now  sixty  years  old,  but  his 
"  hair  is  black  as  it  ever  was.  There  is  a  secret  con- 
"nected  with  this;  he  colors  it  once  a  month.  No 
"vanity  in  that, —  of  course  not!  Shall  I  draw  the  old 
"man's  portrait?  I  will  do  it  faithfully  ;  for  I  do  so 
"  want  you  to  love  him,  when  next  you  meet  ! 


DEATH   OF  MY   MOTHER^  235 

"It  is  some  time  since  you  saw  your  loving  parent ; 
11  and,  as  I  fear  you  may  have  forgotten  some  of  the  items, 
"  I  will  put  them  all  in.  He  is  standing  now  in  front  of 
"  the  house,  and  I  can  see  him  from  where  I  am  writing 
"  (with  my  mind's  eye,  I  can  always  see  him).  There  he 
"  is,  full  six  feet  high,  broad-shouldered,  and  looking  very 
"  black  in  the  face.  His  ugly,  staring  eyes  have  that 
"  same  glare  as  when  you  were  accustomed  to  see  him, 
"only  more  so.  The  high  cheek-bones-are  more  promi- 
"nent  than  ever,  for  the  swarthy  cheeks  have  fallen  in. 
"The  forehead  is  wrinkled  and  Jpiotty,  and  the  great 
"  shaggy  eyebrows  look  savage  as  a  bear.  His  mouth 
"is  more  ugly  than  ever,  and  his  few  remaining  teeth 
"  have  that  yellowish-black  appearance  which  is  usually 
"produced  by  long  acquaintance  with  a  filthy  tobacco- 
"pipe.  His  whole  physiognomy  has  that  same  ugly, 
"  pharisaical  look  as  of  yore, —  only  it  has  increased  with 
"  age.  His  temper  and  disposition  have  been  growing 
"  worse  and  worse,  from  year  to  year,  ever  since  you  left 
"home.  His  prayers  have  so  increased  in  length,  that 
"  they  give  you  the  best  idea  of  an  eternity  of  punish- 
"  ment  of  anything  you  can  possibly  have.  He  is  still 
"  considered  a  burning  and  shining  light  in  the  church ; 
"  th.it  is,  by  some  people.  He  frets,  and  scolds,  and  prays, 
"  and  talks  of  God  and  eternity,  more  and  more.  At 
"  every  religious  meeting  you  are  sure  to  find  him  ;  and 
"  who,  among  all  the  saints,  can  sing  so  loud,  talk  so  elo- 


236  ^  DEATH  OF   MY   MOTHER. 

"  quently  of  Christian  duty,  or  pray  so  long?  He  ir 
11  shocked  at  all  kinds  of  amusements.  A  ball-room  he 
11  considers  a  hell  upon  earth;  and  to  play  a  simple  game 
"of  whist,  a  sin  almost  unpardonable.  He  believes  in 
"  the  salvation  of  but  a  few ;  the  rest  are  to  be  eternally 
"wretched.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  he  had  no  hope 
"of  his  former  wife,  and  was  doubtful  in  relation  to  little 
"Katy;  —  he  was  fearful  they  were  forever  lost! 
"  In  fact,  he  is  a  perfect  enigma  to  me ;  for  he  appears  to 
"  be  sincere. 

"You  will  think  the  above  remarks  entirely  out  of 
"  place,  commencing,  as  I  did,  with  an  account  of  the  ill- 
* '  ness  of  mother.  But  he  now  treats  her  so  shamefully 
"  that  I  could  not  help  bringing  him  before  yOu.  He 
"has  no  little  children  now  to  abuse  arid  trample  upon, 
"  and  so  he  heaps  all  his  abuse  upon  his  wife.  He  tells 
"her  that  she  is  not  that  pious,  devoted  woman  he  sup- 
"  posed  her  to  be  when  he  married  her;  she  has  been 
"  worldly-minded,  caring  more  for  the  things  of  earth 
"than  for  things  of  the  kingdom.  He  taunts  her  con- 
"tinually  about  her  children,  whom  he  calls  devils,  chil- 
"  dren  for  the  fire.  So  fiercely  does  he  look,  at  times, 
"  that  he  frightens  her  ;  and  I  should  not  wonder  if  she 
"  fancied  him  to  be  the  arch-fiend  himself. 

"  It  is  hard  to  endure  these  things ;  but  what  can  I  do  ? 
"  The  world's  people  have  no  more  faith  in- him  now  than 
"  have  you  or  I;  but  the  church  sustains  him.  I  prophesy 


DEATH   OF  MY   MOTHER.W'  237 

"  that  it  will  not,  much  longer.  I  suppose  that  he  has 
"  been  a  hypocrite  so  many  years,  it  has  become  a  second 
"  nature  with  him.  He  is  terribly  mean' and  miserly,  and 
"  sometimes  I  think  that  his  soul  is  so  small  he  need 
"not  trouble  himself  as  to  its  fate.  He  will  yet  become 
"  a  vile,  sordid  miser,  or  I  am  no  prophet. 

"  Jane  would  have  been  married,  ere  this,  but  she  felt 
"  it  her  duty  to  remain  with  mother.  I  am  glad  she  has 
"  done  so,  for  mother  is  better  taken  care  of  than  she 
"  could  have  been  had  she  left.  Do  not  delay  your  com- 
"  ing  many  days,  or  it  may  be  too  late.  Spring  is  with  us 
"once  more,  and  the  showers  and  sunshine  have  covered 
"the  earth  with  verdure,  young,  fresh,  and 'beautiful. 
"  Alas  !  fhat  when  nature  is  awakening  to  newness  of  life, 
"  death  should  be  so  near  !  THOMAS  EATON." 

It  was  now  May,  and  my  engagement  had  nearly 
expired.  In  the  mean  time  I  arranged  everything  for  a 
speedy  departure  to  my  long-forsaken  home, —  a  home 
which  still  had  attractions,  for  all  my  brothers  arid  sisters 
were  there,  and  I  had  notffbrgotten  that  it  was  once  the 
home  of  my  father  and  my  darling  Herbert^  and  that  there 
they  both  died,  breathing  out  the  most'  faithful  love  for, 
me.  I  was  going  to  see  my  mother,  from  whom  I  had 
long  been  separated,  and  for  whom  I  had  no  filial  affec 
tion  ;  for  but  little  parental  love  had  she  ever  manifested 
for  me.  My  feelings  towards  her  were  more  akin  to  hate 


238  DEATH  OF  MY  MOTHER. 


than  love.  But  she  was  on  her  death-bed  now,  and  it 
was  my  duty  to  see  her  once  more,  and  bid  her  spirit 
depart  in  "peace. 

When  I  came  in  view  of  my  boyhood's  home,  a  thou 
sand  thoughts  rushed  upon  my  mind,  —  some  pleasing,  but 
more  sad  and  unhappy.  I  was  delighted  to  behold  again 
those  old  familiar  scenes.  There  was  the  old  dwelling- 
htfuse,  surrounded  with  beautiful  trees,  many  of  which  had 
grown  quite  large  in  my  absence  ;  they  were  now  about 
clothing  themselves  with  a  coat  of  young  and  tender 
leaves,  and  they  looked  so  beautiful,  so  inviting,  that  it 
was  hard  to  think  that  in  that  building  which  they  over 
shadowed  like  the  wings  of  a  guardian  angel  was^  so 
much  wrong  and  suffering.  Wi  3'  beautiful  liftes  were 
brought  forcibly  to  my  mind  : 

.*'  How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world  !  " 

The  fields  all  around  were  brightening  with  the  upspring- 
ing  verdure,  and  the  hills  and  woods  were  glad  in  the 
smiling  sunlight.  The  earth  was  beautiful,  and  the 
heavens  glorious.  The  sunbeams  looked  golden  on  hill 
and  vale  and  waving  forest  tree  ;  the  air  was  soft  and 
warm,  and  the  birds  sang  in  the  trees  or  carolled 
on  the  wing,  as  they  flew  from  bower  to  bower,  from 
green  hills  to  greener  valleys.  "  And  can  it  be,"  thought 
I,  "that  in  the  very  midst  of  this  loveliness,  harmony 


DEATH   OF  MT   MOTHER^  -  239 

and  beauty,  there  is  sickness  and  pain, —  that  the  one 
who  gave  ine  birth  is  nigh,  unto  the  gates  of  death  ? 
Alas  !  it  is  so.  And  here,  amid  this  rural  scenery,  this 
God-created  harmony,  this  heart-uplifting  and  soul- 
inspiring  beauty,  have  lived,  from  year  to  year,  those 
created  eufcjktle  lower  than  the  angels,'  and  yet  foul, 
dark  things  in  the  midst  of  purity  and  light,  —  serpents 
in  Paradise,  devils  in  heaven !  Professrag  much  godli 
ness,  but  destitute  of  love,  charity  and  kindness  ;  praying 
often,  but  never  worshipping  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  In 
the  midst  of  beauty  the  most  ravishing^rfB  elightfui, 
deformed  and  offonsive.^^lHOU^^gfl  ,  but 

beam,  whispered  bjl  Ineaf, 

breathing  from  every^  oird- 

note,  and  smiling  from  ev<'iy  star.  1  -them 

hearts  filled  with  hatred  and  bittenBP  ^Breir  thirsty 
souls  never  opce  drinking  in  a  refreshing  draught  from 
this  ocean  of  light  and  life  !  " 

I  gazed  long  and  thoughtfully  down  the  road  that  led 
to  the  school-house,  which  I  had  often  travelled  in  my 
younger  days, —  my  bitter  life  refreshed  by  thoughts  which 
cheered  my  heart,  as  though  they  had  been  whispered  by 
angels.  I  could  see,  far  away,  a  gleam  or, two  of  the  dark 
waters  of  my  favorite  stream,  where*!  had  watched  the 
beautjfully-tinted  fish,  and  where  my  good  spirit  led  mo 
in  my  dream.  The  cattle  fed  in  the  pastures  near  by,  as 


240  ^DEATH    OF   MY    MOTHER. 

of  yore,  and  the  sheep  were  cropping  the  grass  on  the 
^ide  of  a  distant  hill.  How  glad  I  was  to  feast  my  eyes 
upon  these  old  familiar  scenes  !  I  performed  the  last  part 
of  my  journey  in  an  open  wagon,  that  I  might  the  better 
enjoy  the  scenery  through  which  I  should  pass.  At  my 
request,  when  approaching  my  boyhood's  J^me,  I  was 
driven  very  slowly ;  and  hence  had  time  for  "observation, 
thought  and  rdCection. 

I  was  met  at  the  door  by  sister  Jane,  who  expressed 

great  thankfulness  that  I  had  come  in  season.     As  I 

cntereds  jjjttwthe  deacon,  looking  darker  and  more  repug- 

•M^euJuMy^fore.     He  was  sitting  in 

•ling  his   detestable 

HacH  IRie  arose,  and,  with 

a  look  ^i  MPiibrings  you  here?" 

RRnenrst  glance.  I  did  not  sup- 
posenc  would  Know  me.  A  beseeching  look  from  Jane 
prevented  my  answering  him.  She  led  me  to  another 
room,  where  I  could  be  free  from  his  presence.  Here 
a  fire  was  kindled,  and  here  I  soon  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  my  brothers  and  other  sisters;  and  here,  in 
spite  of  the  deacon's  grumbling,  we  took  our  meals, 
undisturbed  by  him,  or  any  of  the  hateful  tribe. 

In  the  afternoon  I  was  told  that  mother  would  see  me. 
I  entered  the  roonf,  and  was  surprised  to  witness  the 
change  which  had  taken  place  since  I  last  saw,  her. 
The  full,  red  cheeks  were  pale  and  sunken ;  the  fierce, 


DEATH    OF   MY    MOTHER.  241 

dull  and  listless  ;  the  red  lips  white  as  death ; 
her  hands  were  white  and  skinny,  her  body  poor  and 
emaciated.  She  was  but  a  miserable  wreck  of  the  once 
strong  and  healthy  woman.  Her  countenance  gave  evi 
dence  of  cruel  suffering.  I  had  cherished  hatred  for  my 
own  mother,  and  so^pbf  the  bitterness  which  had  sprung 
up  in  my  heart  when  a  child  had  lingered  still»  But 
when  I  saw  her  reduced  so  low,  and  read  of  so  much 
anguish  in  every  lineament  of  her  face,  every  vestige  of 
hate  departed  forever  ;  and>  though  I  did  not  lov^ier,  I 
pitied  her  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  I  would  not. 
for  my  life,  have  adc 
burdened  soul,  bj| 

• 
said,  in  a  faint  voice, 

"Is  this  Henri  Eaton?" 

"  It  is,  mother  ;   do  you  not  know  meT'r 

u  0,  yes  ;  I  now  see  your  father's  looks  very  plainly. 
Are  you 'well  ?  "  extending  her  feeble  hand. 

I  took  it  and  pressed  it  slightly,  replying  that  I  was 
in  very  good  health,  and  I  was  sorry  to  find  her  so  low. 

"  I  have  not  long  to  live,"  she  answered  ;  "  and  I  am 
glad  you  have  come.  How  you  have  grown  !  I  can  see 
more  and  more  of  your  father's  looks.  Henri,  your 
father  was  a  good  man." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  mother." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  when  he  was  living  ;  but  I  know 
21 


242  DEATH   OF  MY  MOTHER. 

it  now.  Henri,  can  you  forgive  your  poor,  sick  ifbther 
the  wrong  she  did  you  when  a  child  ?  " 

"  Forgive  you  ?  Yes,  mother,  with  all  my  heart ;  and 
wherein  I  have  done  wrong,  may  you  extend  to  me  as 
free  a  pardon  !  " 

"  I  did  that  long  ago,  Henri;  flk  felt  that  you -were 
but  litile  to  blame.  You  had  your  father's  active  tem 
perament,  and  you  were  more  passionate  than  was  ever 
your  mother.  But,  had  I  treated  you  as  a  mother  should, 
you  would  have  been  different.  Since  I  married  Deacon 
Webber,  and  especially  since  I  have  lain  upon  a  sick  bed, 
I  have  had  ample  time  to  thin^^  all  these  things.  I 
felt  that  I  could  n  B|til  I  had  the  assur 

ance  of  ^^H?rc  so  passionate  and 

re  vengeful %%  Py0*1,  for  fear  you  would 

overwhelm  me  T  loitter  curses,  and  bring  up  again  the 
old  scenes  of  agony  through  which  we  had  passed. 
Those  scenes  caused  you  much  suffering  then,  but  they 
have  caused  me  more  since.  Until  within  a  few  days,  I 
have  seldom  mentioned  your  name ;  and  when  I  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  you,  I  was  told  that  you  had  been  sent  for. 
I  was  thankful,  and  yet  I  dreaded  the  moment  when 
mother  and  child  would  meet  again.  But  the  bitterness 
is  past,  and  I  shall  now  die  in  peace.  I  find  that  you 
are  as  ready  to  forgive  as  you  are  to  hate;  and  it  is  well 
for  you  that  you  are.  Cherish  this  spirit  of  forgiveness, 


DEATH   OF   MY   MOTHER.  243 

for  it  will  do  you  good.  The  more  I  have  forgiven,  the 
better  I  feel,  and  the  more  willing  am  I  to  die." 

Here  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  came  on.  which  lasted  so 
long  that  we  were  not  able  to  resume  our  conversation 
until  the  next  day. 

When  I  visited  her  again,  I  was  happy  to  observe  that 
her  countenance  wore  a  less  troubled  expression,  was  more 
calm  and  serene.  She  smiled  when  she  saw  me,  and  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  warm  my  heart ;  for  it  seemed  to  me 
to  be  the  first  real  motherly  smile  that  I  had  ever 
received  from  her.  I  was  glad  to  receive  it  now. 

"  We  were  talking,  last  night,"  she  said,  "  in  relation 
to  forgiving  those  who  have  injured  us.  I  have  felt  the 
necessity  of  pardon  from  the  '.  •  and 

God  knows  that,  whatever  my  fee  J  been,  I  as 

freely  forgive  those  who  have  injured  me,  as  I 'would 
have  them  forgive  the  wrongs  I  have  inflicted. 

"  There  is  one,  Henri,  whom  I  greatly  wronged^ and, 
if  she  would  freely  forgive,  I  could  die  happy." 

"  And  will  she  not, —  now  that  you  are  drawing  nigh 
to  the  gates  of  death, —  now  that  you  have  so  brief  a 
period  to  spend  in  this  world  1 " 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  I  did  not  realize  then  what  a 
terrible  sin  it  was  to  counsel  a  cruel  man  to  most 
cruelly  abuse  a  little  child.  Reflection  and  observation 
have  taught  me  that  the  injuries  she  received  at  my 


244  DEATH   OF  MY  MOTHER. 

hands  were  very  great.     The  worst  of  cruelty  is  that 
which  is  inflicted  upon  a  child."  » 

"  To  whom  do  you  refer?"  I  inquired,  a  good  deal 
agitated. 

"  To  the  little  girl  who,  through  your  aid,  escaped  from 
Deacon  Webber." 

"  And  you  would  have  her  forgiveness  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  for  I  counselled  the  deacon  to  adopt  the  most 
rigorous  and  cruel  measures,  ;n  order  to  make  her  obey 
him  in  all  things ;  for,  he  said,  she  was  very  stubborn  and 
disobedient.  I  now  feel  that,  however  much  she  might 
have  been  to  blame,  even  if  she  were  as  wicked  and 
abandoned  asth&^kacon  said  she  was,  the  treatment 
which  I  ml visi  and  unjust." 

"lam'giacWP  Kryou  say  so.  But  Helen  Means 
never  deserved  ill  or  harsh  treatment  at  all ;  for  she  was 
always  pure  and  good.  Uncle  and  aunt  will  tell  you 
that  She  is  an  angel." 

"  Does  she  live  with  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  has,  ever  since  she  left  Deacon  Webber." 

"  Strange  that  I  have  never  known  she  was  there  !  " 

"  I  supposed  you  did.  Have  neither  of  the  children 
mentioned  her  name  ?  " 

"  No,  nor  I  to  them.  If  she  is  as  faultless  as  you 
say,  she  has  much  to  forgive;  for  her  treatment  was 
nothing  but  absolute  cruelty.  May  God  forgive  me  for 
being  an  accessory  in  so  foul 'a  crime  !  " 


DEATH    OF   MY    MOTHER.  245 

"  But  you  thought  she  was  wicked  and  abandoned." 

''Yes,  and  I  now  see,  more  clearly  than  ever,  the 
character  of  the  man  to  whom  I  gave  my  hand  in  mar 
riage.  0,  bitterly  have  I  repented  that  fatal  step !  Do 
you  think  Helen  Means  would  forgive  me,  when  I  so 
have  wronged  her?" 

"  Forgive  !  Yes,  and  fall  upon  your  neck  and  mingle 
her  tears  of  sympathy  with  your  tears  of  suffering.  But 
she  has  nothing  to  forgive  now." 

"Why  not?" 

"  She  forgave  you  at  the  time,  and  chided  me  for  the 
hafsh  epithets  which  I  freely  applied  to  you.  She  for 
gave  all  her  enemies, —  even  Deacon  Webber." 

"  She  must  have  been  a  beautiful  chile  I  thought 
you  very  wicked  then,  in  aiding  her  escape ;  but  I 
now  see  that  you  acted  right,  and  God  will  reward 
you." 

"  I  have  already  received  my  re  ward;  it  came  in  the 
deed.  So  happy  was  I  that  she  had  escaped  and  found  a 
safe  asylum,  that  I  could  have  suffered  anything  without 
a. murmur." 

"  Happy  are  those  who  do  good  as  they  have  oppor 
tunity  ;  for  they  have  joy  which  the  mere  pleasure-seeker 
can  never  know.  My  character  may  have  seemed  strange 
to  you,  Henri,  and  it  would  be  strange  if  it  had  not. 
Take  down  the  bead  bag,  that  hangs  by  the  window,  and 
21* 


246  DEATH   OF  MY  MOTHER. 

in  it  you  will  find  a  key.  which  will  unlock  the  little 
drawer  in  the  secretary.  In  that  drawer  is  a  sealed  pack 
age,  which  I  intrust  to  you,  the  seal  not  to  be  broken 
until  I  am  in  my  grave.  When  the  cold  earth  lies  above 
me;  then  read  it,  and  think  as  well  of  your  mother  as  you 
can.  I  hope  it  may  soften  the  feelings  which  your  treat 
ment  in  childhood  must  have  caused.  Now  leave  me  ;  for 
I  am  very  weary,  and  fain  would  rest." 

My  mother  lingered  but  a  few  days  more,  and  then  fell 
into  the  peaceful  slumber  of  death.  So  kind,  so  gentle 
was  she  to  me  in  her  last  hours,  that  I  wept  long  when 
she  died.  I  felt  that  I  had  lost  my  mother.  She  had  so 
changed,  during  the  last  year,  that  the  other  children  were 
deeply  afflicted.  We  wept  together,  happy  that  we  could 
feel  to  weep. 

Uncle  and  Aunt  Eaton  and  Mrs.  Stewart  came  to  my 
mother's  funeral ;  but  they  did  not  bring  Helen,  as  I 
desired.  They  said  she  was  well,  but  chose  not  to  come, 
and  they  did  not  urge  her. 

We  now  made  the  best  arrangements  we  could  for  the 
deacon  to  leave,  and  his  family.  Happy  were  we  to  see 
the  house  freed  from  the  presence  of  those  we  detested. 
They  returned  to  the  old  place,  and  Hezekiah  soon  after 
built  a  house  near  by.  Mrs.  Stewart,  at  our  urgent 
solicitation,  consented  once  more  to  take  up  her  abode 
with  us.  This  arrangement  was  highly  gratifying  to  us 
all :  for  we  loved  Mrs.  Stewart  when  children,  and  we 


DEATH    OF   MY    MOTHER.  247 

felt  that,  as  long  as  she  remained  with  us,  we  should  not 
be  destitute  of  a  mother.  She  was  as  much  gratified 
as  were  we,  although  she  said. that  her  stay  with  my  uncle 
had  been  the  happiest  part  of  her  life,  excepting  when  she 
lived  with  Ijer  husband  and  child.  My  uncle  and  aunt, 
she  said,  were  like  a  good  brother  and  sister  to  her ;  and 
as  for  Helen,  the  dear  child  had  been  more  than  a  daugh 
ter.  And  yet,  she  was  glad  to  come  back  to  us;  for 
it  was  returning  to  old  friends  and  to  old  scenes. 
"  This,"  said  she,  "is,  after  all,  my  home." 

It  was  well  for  us  that  she  came ;  for,  if  she  had  not 
been  with  us,  I  fear  we  should  have  made  sad  work  of  it. 
There  would  not  have  been  so  much  union  and  peace. 
"We  were  all  quick-tempered  and  passionate,  with  the 
exception  of  Jane ;  and  all  but  myseffhad  lived  years  with 
those  who  would  spoil  the  dispositions  of  angels.  It  was 
no  marvel  that  they  had  so  little  government  over  them 
selves,  after  so  fatal  a  training.  To  my  surprise,  Mrs. 
Stewart  made  me  a  right-hand  man  as  a  peacemaker.  I 
knew  that  I  was  unfit  for  the  office ;  and  that  my  place 
should  be  as  a  pupil,  rather  than  a  teacher.  But  under 
her  instructions  I  succeeded  admirably.  I  should  have 
been  ashamed  to  have  allowed  my  passions  to  triumph 
over  my  reason,  under  such  circumstances.  I  was  well 
aware  that  more  ought  to  be  expected  of  me  than  of  my 
brothers  and  sisters ;  for  I  had  been  free  for  some  time 
from  the  contamination  of  discord  a&d  evil  examples.  But 


248  DEATH   OF  MY  MOTHER. 

I  soon  vacated  the  office ;  and,  in  due  season,  the  reader 
will  learn  the  reason  why.  When  everything  had  been 
satisfactorily  arranged,  I  determined  to  visit  my  uncle's, 
for  I  was  impatient  to  see  Helen.  I  now  recollected  that 
I  had  not  opened  the  package  which  mother  had  placed  in 
my  care.  On  a  warm  and  beautiful  day,  I  took  it  and 
wandered  to  an  old  favorite  spot ;  and,  seating  myself  in 
the  shade  of  a  button  wood- tree,  broke  the  seal  and  read 
it.  The  reader  will  find  the  contents  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE    HEART   UNVEILED. 

"  DEAU  HE^RI  :  You  may  be  surprised  that  I  should 
"  address  you  thus,  after  our  long  disaffection  and  sep- 
"  aration,  with  no  reconciliation.  But  I  feel  now,  not- 
"  withstanding  the  unnatural  feuds  which  have  existed 
"  between  us,  that  you  are  nevertheless  dear  to  me,  and 
uso  are  all  my  children.  It  has  not  been  always  so ; 
"  but  I  now  see  things  in  a  different  light ;  the  scales 
"  are  taken  from  my  eyes,  and  I  am  no  longer  blind. 
"'Time  changes  all  things;  and  it  is  sometimes  well  that 
"  our  thoughts,  feelings  and  affections,  undergo  as  great 
"  a  change  as  those  things  of  a  more  outward  nature. 
"  We  sometimes  think  we  see,  when  we  are  blind;  and 
"  hear,  when  we  are  deaf.  We  sometimes  hearken  to 
"  passion  and  hatred,  when  we  should  listen  to  conscience 
"  and  reason.  Circumstances  of  a  varied  nature  cause 
"us  to  assume  a  wrong  position,  to  take  a  false  step,  or 
''choose  the  wrong  path;  and,  when  convinced  of  the 
"  error,  pride  or  self-will  forbids  us  to  retrace  our  steps ; 
"and  so  we  rush  on,  shutting  our  eyes  to  the  conse- 
"  quences  which  must  follow.  Injustice,  disappointment, 


250  THE    HEART   UNVEILED. 

"  the  severing  of  holiest  ties  and  dearest  attachments, 
"  dethrone  reason,  bewilder  judgment,  overflow  the  heart 
"  with  grief,  and  make  it  bitter  and  hard.  Could  we 
"  look  into  the  hearts  of  men,  women,  and  children, 
11  we  should  be  more  charitable  than  we  are.  We  should 
"  then  verify  the  old  proverb,  that  '  truth  is  stranger 

"than  fiction.' 

« 
"  In  the  printed  pages  of  books,  we  read  many  won- 

"  derful  and  mysterious  things,  things  that  startle  and 
"  astound ;  but,  could  we  read  the  human  heart,  we 
"  should  find  things  there  that  were  never  read  in  books, 
"  and  never  can  be.  We  read  of  oppression,  of  cruelty, 
"  of  crime  and  terrible  wrongs,  in  books,  and  in  the 
"  columns  of  newspapers  ;  of  scenes  so  horrible  that  tears 
"  and  blood  seem  to  start  from  the  words  which  tell  the 
11  awful  tale.  Could  we  read  the  pages  which  lie  folded 
"  within  the  human  breast, —  the  thoughts,  the  cruelties, 
"  the  wrongs  which  they  would  reveal, —  those  in  books 
"  would  be  but  as  a  spring  zephyr,  which  plays  among 
"  flowers,  to  the  mighty  tempest  that  goes  thundering  o'er 
"  the  main,  tossing  great  ships,  as  the  light  wind  tosses  a 
"  feather.  And  from  the  words  there  inscribed  would, 
11  in  very  truth,  ooze  blood  and  tears  !  And  those  words 
"  would  teach  us  many  startling  truths,  which  the  wicked 
cc  and  abandoned  would  little  care  if  they  were  read  of 
"  all  men ;  but  many  who  occupy  high  stations  in  church 
"  and  state  would  bleach  with  shame  at  the  thought. 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  251 

"  Those  pages  would  solve  many  dark  enigmas,  —  show 
"  the  causes  that  makes  us  what  we  are.  Henri,  I  may 
"  never  see  you  again  ;  and,  if  I  should,  I  could  not  tell 
"  you  all  that  I  may  write.  I  will  place  my  thoughts 
"  on  paper,  that  when  I  am  dead  you  may  read  and 
"  know  what  they  are.  The  narrative  which  I  leave  you, 
d,  and  ponder  well,  and  judge  of  me  as  ye  would  be 


"  Since  I  wrote  the  above,  I  have  sat  some  time,  with 
"  my  head  upon  my  hand,  looking  upon  the  past;  and, 
"  as  my  thoughts  have  wandered  back,  far  back,  tears 
"  have  started  from  my  eyes,  and  trickled  down  through 
"  my  fingers.  I  have  wandered  back  to  the  days  of 
"  childhood,  when  I  was  a  joyous,  light-hearted  child,  — 
"  when  there  seemed  so  many  beautiful  things  in  this 
"  weary,  weary,  world.  How  glorious  then  seemed  the 
"  future  to  me  !  —  so  very,  very  bright;  and  the  laughing 
"loves  stood  in  flower-crowned  pathways,  and,  with  their 
"  white,  dimpled  hands,  tossed  me  fragrant  kisses,  and 
"  beckoned  me  to  follow,  as  though  I  had  just  tasted  of 
"  the  sweets  of  life,  and  my  good  angels  would  lead  me 
"  to  where  life  is  perfect  :  as  though  I  had  but  drank  of 
"  the  rippling  stream,  and  the  water-spirits  would  guard 
"  me  to  the  fountain.  0,  how  overwhelming  is  the 
"  thought  that  I  should  so  have  changed  !  Terrible  wag 
'  it  to  find  the  world  so  full  of  bitterness,  when  I  ex- 
"  pected  sweets  ;  but  more  terrible  still  that  I  should 


252  THE   HEART   UNVEILED. 

''have  discovered  so  much  bitterness  in  my  own  heart. 
"  My  poor  brain  grows  wild  as  I  look  upon  my  former  self, 
"  as  she  passes  before  the  eye  of  the  mind,  and  read  her 

^ 

"  heart.  How  imperfect  I  was  then  !  —  but  to  what  lower 
"  depths  have  I  descended  since  ! 

"  Comparatively  speaking,  my  youthful  days  were 
"  very  happy, —  the  most  blessed  and  beautiful  of  my  life. 
"  I  was  surrounded  with  every  luxury  that  heart  ciold 
"  wish;  and  my  parents  were  usually  kind,  and  so  were 
"  my  brothers  and  sisters.  I  stood  in  awe  of  no  one,  but 
"  my  father.  He  was  generally  indulgent  to  me  ;  but 
"  his  will  was  stern  and  unbending,  and  mine  of  a 
"  similar  stamp, —  though  strong  as  iron  in  the  presence 
"  of  others,  was  like  wax  in  the  fire,  when  it  came  in 
"  contact  with  his.  He  had  but  little  control  over  his 
"passions,  and  when  any  of  the  family  opposed  his 
"  wishes  he  would  overwhelm  them  with  a  torrent  of  vile 
"  epithets  and  vituperation;  and  it  did  npt  matter  at  all, 
"  with  him,  who  were  the  witnesses  of  his  ungentlemanly 
"  and  foolish  conduct.  So  many  times  had  he  done  this, 
"  when  our  townsmen  and  friends  and  strangers  were 
"  present,  that  I  would  have  done  almost  anything  rather 
"than  cross  his  wishes  in  the  least;  for  I  would  not 
* '  have  them  know  that  my  father  was  so  reckless,  and 
"  had  so  little  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  his  children. 
"  With  all  his  other  faults,  my  father  lacked  principle 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  253 

"  sadfy,  and  I  inherited  and  learned  of  him  more  than 
"  was  for  my  good. 

11  The  most  of  the  time,  during  my  childhood,  I*was 
"  gay  and  happy ;  and  should  have  been  so  always,  if  my 
11  father  had  had  more  respect  for  himself  and  children, 
"  and  I  had  possessed  more  principle  and  less  temper. 
"  The  latter  was  often  my  bane,  and  a  lack  of  the  former 
"  frequently  led  me  into  difficulties. 

"  I  was  a  good  lover,  and  a  good  hater.  I  had  a  few 
"  friends,  whom  I  loved  intensely  ;  but  the  majority  of 
"  those  I  frequently  met  with  I  regarded  with  indif- 
"  ference.  But  I  knew  the  latter  had  the  power  to 
"  injure  me,  and  that  they  justly  regarded  me  as  proud ; 
"  and  I  know  not  but  that  I  feared  my  father's  out- 
"  breaks  of  passion  in  their  presence  more  than  in  the 
"presence  of  my  friends.  It  made  but  little  difference 
"  whether  the  former  or  the  latter  were  witnesses ;  my 
"  face  would  ever  crimson  with  shame.  There  was 
11  another  class  of  persons  whom  I  despised. — -hated, 
"  with  as  much  intensity  as  I  loved  those  who  were  near- 
"  est  and  dearest.  I  was  often  a  favorite ;  for,  though 
{:  self-willed  and  passionate,  I  was  considered  unusually 
"  fascinating,  and  by  many  as  very  handsome.  A  lack 
"  of  principle,  and  an  ungovernable  temper,  were  my 
"greatest  imperfections.  But,  with  these  even,  I  should 
"  have  been  a  very  different  being,  if  my  whole  nature 
"  had  not  been  so  terribly  embittered. 
22 


254  THE    HEART    UNVEILED. 

"  From  what  I  have  said  you  will  perceive  thaf  I  was 
"  capable  of  forming  a  very  strong  attachment, —  of  lov- 
(:  ifig  with  the  deepest  intensity;  and  that  I  should  be 
"  very  likely  to  form  such  an  attachment,  when  I  should 
"  meet  with  the  right  one,  without  consulting  the  wishes 
"  of  others. 

"  In  one  thing  I  differed  very  much  from  my  father. 
"  He  thought  too  highly  of  family,  and  wealthy  cdhnec- 
"  tions.  All  who  were  rich  were  worthy  of  considera- 
"  tion.  The  poor  received  but  little  notice  from  him, 
"  however  talented  or  meritorious.  With  these  false 
" notions  I  had  no  sympathy;  for  I  had  the  utmost 
"  contempt  for  young  men  of  wealthy  families,  whose 
"  greatest  merit  consisted  in  knowing  how  to  squander 
"  money  which  their  parents  had  earned,  and  in  uttering 
"  soft,  meaningless  compliments  to  ladies,  as  they  were 
11  called,  who  replied  to  their  namby-pamby  remarks  in  a 
"similar  strain,  rendered  more  ridiculous  by  the  super- 
u  fluous  and  outrageous  abuse  of  adjectives.  Some  of 
"  the  finest  words  in  our  language  are  continually  on 
"the  rack;  and  they  are  compelled  to  associate  with 
"  uncongenial  company,  and  do  and  say  very  many  silly 
"  and  contemptible  things.  You  hear  of  the  most  gor- 
"  geous  wedding-cake,  beautiful  beef-steak,  delightful 
"doughnuts,  splendid  pie,  elegant  puddings, —  elegant 
"  walking,  elegant  water,  elegant  flowers,  elegant  hair 
"  or  whiskers,  elegant  mouth,  and  elegant  everything. 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  255 

"  I  could  not  but  despise  such,  both  male  and  female, 
"  and  their  imitators ;  while  I  respected  many  young  men 
"  who  were  talented,  and  their  minds  well  stored  with 
"  knowledge.  I  cherished  such  feelings  when  I  was  not 
"  more  than  fourteen.  I  felt  a  contempt  for  my  father's 
11  views  in  relation  to  these  things,  and  prided  myself  in 
"differing  from  him. 

"  At  sixteen,  I  was  sent  sixty  miles  from  home,  to 
"  school.  I  there  formed  an  .acquaintance  with  a  young 
"  man,  which  soon  ripened  into  passionate  mutual  love. 
tl  He  was  four  years  older  than  myself,  and  was  endeavor- 
"  ing  to  secure  an  education  which  would  fit  him  for  an 
"  honorable  position  in  society.  A  brief  description  of 
"  him  will  suffice.  About  the  middling  height,  straight 
"and  slim.  His  heAwas  large,  forehead  expansive, 
"eyes  black,  and  glowing  with  intellectual  beauty.  When 
"  they  were  fixed  in  melting  admiration  upon  me,  I  was 
"  entranced,  bewildered,  and  I  could  have  died  feeling 
"  that  their  light  would  lift  my  soul  to  heaven ! 

"  He  was  an  orphan  and  poor  ;  but  what  cared  I?  So 
"  passionate  was  my  love,  that  I  would  have  preferred  a 
"  rude  cottage  with  him,  rather  than  a-  palace  without 
"him,  or  with  one  I  could  not  love.  We  were  often 
"together;  and  one  autumn  evening,  when  we  had  wan- 
"  dered  far  away  from  our  companions,  he  told  me  of 
"  his  love.  With  what  rapture  I  listened  to  his  passion- 
"ate  words,  so  glowing  and  truthful !  I  tried  to  speak, 


256  THE   HEART   UNVEILED. 

"  but  could  not;  my  bosom  heaved  with  intense  emotion, 
"  and  I  fell  upon  his  breast  and  burst  into  tears.  Thus 
"  you  see  how  ungovernable  were  my  feelings,'  whether 
"of  love  or  hatred.  My  passions  were  hasty  and  impul- 
"sive,  and  sometimes  entirely  overpowering  me;  but  not 
11  always,  for  I  could,  at  times,  manifest  the  utmost  indif- 
"  ference,  to  the  dearest  object  on  earth.  I  had  often 
"  done  it  to  Herbert.  But,  although  I  could,  and  did, 
"  manifest  great  coldness  frequently,  yet  my  attachments 
"were  strong,  and  when  I  had  once  made  up  my  mind 
"  it  was  inflexible,  especially  at  this  period  of  my  life.  I 
"might  seem  to  yield  to  my  stern  father,  but  only  from 
"fear  of  an  outbreak  with  him,  with  whom  I  could  not 
"  well  contend,  and  that  I  might  escape  the  mortification 
"which  his  ungovernable  tongae^)ukl  cause  me,  and  the 
"  more  surely  gain  my  object. 

"  When  Herbert  and  I  were  more  calm,  I  told  him 
"  that  his  love  was  returned,  but  I  feared  there  was  one 
"almost  insurmountable  obstacle  in  the  way  of  our  happi- 
"ness.  He  anxiously  inquired  what  it  was.  I  informed 
"him  that  my  father  was  proud  and  unyielding,  and 
"  that  his  children  must  marry  only  those  whom  he  ap- 
"  proved.  Well  knowing  his  character,  thoughts,  feelings, 
"  wishes,  I  was  very  certain  that  he  had  determined 
"  upon  my  marrying  a  man  with  at  least  a  respectable 
"  fortune. 

"  Herbert  (his  name   was  Herbert  Bending)  was  not 


THE   HEART    UNVEILED.  257 

"  discouraged  by  this  information,  but  proposed  to  write  to 
"  my  father  at  once,  asking  his  permission  to  pay  his 
"  addresses  to  his  daughter,  as  we  were  already  devotedly 
"  attached  to  each  other.  This  step  I  opposed,  as  it  might 
"jeopardize  our  happiness.  I  told  him  that  he  need  not 
"  fear,  for  he  alone  should  be  my  husband ;  and  I  cared 
"not  for  the  wishes  of  my  father,  and  should  not  consult 
"  them.  I  loved  him,  and  that  was  enough  for  me ;  and  I 
"  would  swear  to  wed  only  him.  When  I  gave  utterance 
"  to  these  sentiments,  I  fancied  I  saw  a  shade  of  disap 
pointment  upon  his  face.  I  thought  he  regretted  to 
"  learn  that  I  had  no  filial  fear  for  my  father;  and  was 
"ready  any  moment  to  disobey  him,  should  his  wishes 
"  come  in  contact  with  mine.  He  replied  to  my  remarks 
"  by  saying  that  he  could  not  conscientiously  consent  to 
"a  clandestine  engagement,  until  all  other  measures  had 
"  failed.  I  was  somewhat  vexed  to  hear  him  say  this  ; 
"  for,  as  I  was  willing  to  sacrifice  everything  for  his  sake, 
"  I  thought  he  should  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  what  I 
"regarded  as  the  foolish  qualms  of  conscience.  'No,' 
"  said  he,  '  I  will  act  honorably,  and  so  gain  your  father's 
1  '  approval ;  and  then  I  will  work  like  a  hero  to  place 
"  myself  in  a  situation  to  be  worthy  of  you.'  I  was 
"proud  to  see  him  so  self-confident,  although  I  despaired 
"  of  the  result.  I  knew  my  father  too  well. 

"  The  letter  was  written  and  sent.      He  wrote  truth- 
"  fully  of  his  poverty,  but  also  of  his  determined  spirit 
22* 


• 

258  THE    HEART    UNVEILED. 

"and  bright  hopes.  Byliis  own  unaided  efforts  he  would 
"  hew  out  for  himself  a  fortune  and  a  name.  He  desired 
"my  father's  approbation  and  good  wishes;  and,  having 

."his  daughter's  love,  it  would  be  a  great  stimulant  to 
"  action,  to  perseverance ;  and  he  would  never  ask  my 
"hand  in  marriage  until  he  had  placed  himself  in  a 
"position  that  my  father  might  well  be  proud  of  in  a 
"son-in-law. 

"  It  was  now  vacation  time,  and  we  were  almost  con- 
"  stantly  together.  Sometimes  we  went  with  our  school- 
"  mates  (those  who  had  not  returned  home)  on  a  fishing 
"  or  plumming  excursion;  or  we  visited  some  high  hill  or 
"  mountain,  or  passed  pleasant  afternoons  under  shady 
"  trees  by  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water.  Our  growing  inti- 
"  macy  was  not  unnoticed ;  but  no  one  chided  us,  or  inter- 
"  fered  in  the  least.  Herbert  was  highly  respected  by 
"  all,  and  hence  we  were  left  unmolested. 

"  Those  were  blissful  days,  beautiful  with  sunlight,  and 
"yet  not  without  their  shadows.  I  was  ever  fearful  of 
"  coming  trouble, —  of  separation  from  the  one  I  loved  so 
"dearly.  I  had  what  a  phrenologist  would  term  large 

' "  secret! veness ;  and  yet  I  sometimes  advanced  sentiments 
"in  the  presence  of  Herbert  which  he  seemed  very  much 
"  to  disapprove.  Whenever  he  detected  a  lack  of  princi 
ple,  he  would  look  at  me  earnestly,  as  if  half  doubting 
"  whether  I  had  expressed  my  real  views.  If  he  came  to 
"  the  conclusion  that  I  had,  he  would  look  troubled  and 


THE  HEART  UNVEILED.  259 

<(  disconcerted,  and  then  suddenly  brignten  urj,  as  though 
"  he  hoped,  in  time,  to  destroy  the  hateful  weed,  root 
"  and  branch.  0,  how  much  I  loved  him  !  So  well, 
"  that  every  glance  he  gave  me,  every  expression,  every 
11  change  of  countenance,  are  daguerreotyped  on  my  poor 
"  bleeding  heart  to-day,  and  they  will  go  with  me  to  my 
"  grave.  •  And  shall  I  see  him  in  a  better  world  ?  Alas  ! 
"  if  I  should,  what  will  he  think  of  me  1  Can  he  look 
"down  low  enough  to  see  me?  Can  I  look  up  high 
"  enough  to  see  him  ?  In  whatever  light  he  may  regard 
"  me,  whatever  may  be  his  thoughts,  I  wish  to  see  his 
"  beautiful  face  once  more.  I  would  pray  for  that,  even 
"  were  he  an  angel  and  I  a  damned  spirit. 

"About  two  weeks  after  Herbert  had  written,  I  was 
"  surprised,  one  afternoon,  to  see  my  father  drive  up  to 
11  my  boarding-house.  He  met  me  with  a  grave  and 
"severe  air;  and,  after  we  had  entered  my  room,  he 
"  bade  me  get  ready  to  start  for  home  immediately. 

"'Why  leave  for  home  so  suddenly?'  I  inquired; 
"  '  are  any  of  the  family  sick  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,  sick  of  your  conduct.  A  pretty  miss  you  are, 
"truly!  I  sent  you  here  for  an  education,  that  when 
"  you  were  old  enough  you  might  not  disgrace  the  gen- 
"  tleman  whom  I  have  chosen  for  your  huroand ;  but 
"  you  are  no  sooner  out  of  my  sight  than  you  are  in  love 
"  with  the  first  miserable  puppy  who  fawns  upon  you, 
"  and  licks  your  hand  !  Shame  on  you,  Mary  !  I  hoped 


260  THE   HEAET    UNVEILED. 

"better  things  of  you.  Never  let  it  be  said  again  that 
"you  are  like  your  father.  If  you  do  not  know  your 
."  place  better  than  this,  I  will  keep  you  under  lock  and 
"  key  until  you  learn ;  —  do  you  hear  ?  But  get  ready, 
"girl,  for  I  am  in  haste;  you  would  have  seen  me 
"  ere  this,  if  I  had  been  at  home  when  the  churl's  letter 
"  came.' 

"  With  a  bitter  and  rebellious  heart,  I  packed  my 
"  clothes  and  books  for  a  speedy  departure.  When  I 
"  was  ready  I  went  into  the  drawing-room,  to  say  good- 
"by  to  the  family  with  whom  I  boarded,  and  my  school 
-mates  who  boarded  with  me.  My  father  called  for  pen 
"and  ink,  and  they  were  immediately  placed  upon  the 
"  table.  It  is  said  to  be  unmannerly  to  whisper  in  the 
"presence  of  company;  my  father  would  never  do  it; 
"  but  he  would  speak  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  no  one  pres- 
"  ent  could  understand,  excepting  the  person  or  persons 
' '  to  whom  he  addressed  his  remarks.  I  had  learned  to 
"  converse  in  the  same  manner  before  leaving  home. 
"  After  I  had  spent  a  few  minutes  in  conversation  with 
"  the  different  members  of  the  family,  my  father,  who 
"  was  sitting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  watching 
"  me  closely,  beckoned  me  to  a  seat  by  his  side.  He 
"held  ilitiis  hand  a.  sheet  of  paper,  folded  like  a  letter. 
"  He  showed  me  the  back  of  it ;  it  was  addressed  to 
"  Herbert. 

"  '  What  is  that  ?  '  said  I 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  261 

"  '  A'-letter  of  dismissal,'  he  said ;  '  and  you  must  put 
"  your  name  to  it.' 

"  '  Must  put  my  name  to  it?  ' 

"  '  Yes,  must.     It  is  time  this  love-foolery  was  ended.' 

"  '  Let  me  read  it  first.' 

"  '  Do  as  I  command  you,  and  go  to  that  table  and 
"  sign  your  name  ;  —  do  you  hear  ?  '  And  he  gave  me  a 
"  look  so  dark  and  threatening,  that  I  trembled  lest  he 
"  should  give  vent  to  his  pent-up  wrath  in  the  presence 
"  of  my  friends,  who  were  all  strangers  to  him. 

"  '  Do  let  me  read  it,'  I  said,  faintly. 

11  'I  swear  you  shall  not!  I  know  what's  proper  to 
"  be  written ;  and  I  am  in  haste,  and  will  not  dally 
"  longer.' 

"  'I  beg  of  you  to  let  me  know  what  it  contains  !  ' 
"  His  face  was  now  growing  black  with  suppressed  rage, 
"and  his  eyes  seemed  to  burn  like  hot  coals.  He  knew 
"  his  power,  and  my  weakness,  but  too  well ;  and,  with 
"  the  fore-finger  of  his  right  hand  pointing  to  me  in  a 
"most  threatening  manner,  he  said,  '  Will  you  sign 
"  it?1 

"  I  now  well  knew  that  all  the  bitterness  of  his  heart 
11  would  be  poured  upon  me  in  one  moment  more,  if  I 
"  longer  refused  to  obey.  I  took  my  eyes  from  his,  and 
{ '  looked  to  see  if  those  who  were  in  the  room  were 
"  noticing  us ;  they  were  all  gazing  upon  us,  with  sur- 


262          f  THE   HEART   UNVEILED. 

"  prise  and  curiosity  depicted  upon  their  countenances. 
"I  did  not  hesitate  longer,  but  went  to  the  table  and 
"  wrote  my  name,  and  handed  the  letter  back  to  my 
"  father.  If  I  had  been  alone  with  him,  I  would  not 
"  have  done  it ;  but,  as  it  was,  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
"  do  otherwise ;  would  to  God  that  I  had  !"  We  started 
"  for  home  soon  after,  and  I  had  not  seen  Herbert,  nor 
"  exchanged  a  word  with  one  of  my  intimate  friends. 
"  On  our  journey  home  my  father  reproached  me  in  the 
"most  cruel  and  heartless  manner,  and  told  me  that  I 
"  had  sent  a  letter  to  my  lover  that  would  settle  the 
"  matter,  and  there  would  be  no  further  trouble.  When 
11  he  said  this  I  looked  him  in  the  face,  and  saw  the 
"  evidence  of  such  diabolical  cunning,  that  I  grew  sick 
"  and  faint,  and  should  have  swooned  if  I  had  not  made 
"strong  efforts  to  save  myself.  After  a  few  minutes' 
11  reflection,  I  consoled  myself  with  the  thought  that  I 
"should  write % so  soon  that  my  imprudence  would  not 
"  result  in  any  permanent  injury. 

"  We  arrived  home  the  next  day,  and  I  immediately 
"  penned  a  brief  note  to  Herbert.  He  never  received  it ; 
"  and,  I  doubt  not,  it  was  intercepted  by  my  father. 
"  I  never  asked  him,  but  I  am  well  aware  that  he  was 
"  wicked  enough  to  do  it.  God  forgive  him  the  fatal 
1 '  wrong,  and  may  all  who  hear  my  sad  story  take  warn- 
"ing!  Let  parents  beware  how  they  trifle  with  the 
"  holiest  affections  of  the  human  heart.  I  did  not  feel  to 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  263 

• 

1  forgive  my  father  while  he  lived,  nor  for  many  years 
"  after  he  died;  but  now  my  feelings  are  changed,  and  I 
1  'freely  pardon  him,  as  I  hope  for  mercy  from  God,  and 
"  forgiveness,  ere  I  die,  from  all  those  whom  I  have 
"injured. 

"  I  requested  Herbert  to  write  as  soon  as  he  received 
"my  note;  but  day  after  day  passed  away,  and  I  was 
"kept  in  suspense,  and  terrible  suffering. 

1 '  I  had  been  at  home  some  two  weeks,  when  a  letter 
"was  brought  to  me  by  my  sister  Ellen;  —  its  seal  was 
"black.  I  went  to  my  room,  and,  with  feelings  which 
"can  be  better  conceived  of  than  told,  I  examined  the 
"  superscription,  to  learn  from  whom  it  came.  A  glance 
"  satisfied  me  that  it  was  from  my  dearest  friend  and 
"  companion  at  school,  Amanda  Wingate.  With  my 
"  breath  suppressed,  the  pulsations  of  my  beart  stilled, 
"  with  fearful  dread  and  terrible  forebodings,  I  broke 
"the  seal,  and  read  but  one  dreadful  sentence,  in  which 
"  all  the  letters  seemed  darts  of  fire,  leaping  to  fasten 
"  themselves  in  my  heart.  /  Herbert  is  dead  ! '  I  could 
"read  no  more;  my  brain  reeled,  my  head  swam,  my 
"  eyes  grew  dim,  end  I  shrieked  in  terrible  agony,  and 
"  fell  heavily  to  the  floor. 

"  When  I  came  out  of  my  fainting-fit,  my  mother  and 
"  sisters  were  standing  over  me,  with  anxiety  and  alarm 
"  depicted  upon  their  countenances.  I  was  carried  to 
"  my  bed,  when  I  soon  recovered  perfect  consciousness. 


264  THE   HEART   UNVEILED. 

"  £  What  a  horrid  calamity,'   I  thought,  {  had  befallen 

I  'me.'     But  the  reality  proved  a  thousand  times  greater 
"  than  I  could  have  imagined  it.     I  loved  Herbert  so 

II  well,    that  under   his   gentle   and  loving  influence  I 
"  should  have  learned  the  value  of  principle,  and  for  his 
"  sake  loved  truth,-  and  by  and  by  have  loved  it  for  its 
"  own  sake,  and  so  have  escaped  the  awful  doom  which, 
"  since  I  lost  him,  has  been  mine.     Words  are  utterly 
"  inadequate  to  describe  the  cruel  anguish  that  wrung  my 
"  heart,  as  I  lay  upon  my  bed,  bathing  my  pillow  with 
''tears.     What  was  the  world  to  me  now?     What  were 
"  friends,  home,  pleasures,  life?    How  earnestly  I  prayed 
"  for  death  to  come  and  deliver  me  from  my  woes  ! 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  gain  courage  I  read  the  re- 
"  mainder  of  the  letter,  which  only  served  to  add  poig- 
"  nancy  to  my  already  intense  sufferings  ;  you  will  not 
"  be  surprised  that  it  should  have  had  that  effect. 

"  DEAR  MARY  :  Herbert  is  dead  and  buried  ;  he  died  night  before 
"  last,  and  was  buried  to-day,  at  three  o'clock.  0,  Mary  !  how 
"  could  you  write  that  terrible  letter?  Were  you  mad?  I  cannot 
"  realize  it,  it  is  so  like  a  dark  and  troubled  dream.  I  thought  you 
**  passionately  loved  him  ;  but  when  I  read  tfyat  fatal  letter,  I  was 
"  bewildered.  When  Herbert  read  it,  he  could  scarcely  believe  his 
"  own  eyes  ;  but  there  it  was  before  him,  and  why  should  he  doubt  ? 
"  Would  to  God  he  had  doubted  !  That  night,  he  told  me,  before  he 
"  died,  was  one  of  fearful  agony,  in  which  passion,  anger,  grief, 
*  hatred,  revenge,  despair,  jealousy,  made  him  their  sport,  as  devils 
"  may  be  supposed  to  sport  with  the  spirits  of  the  damned  !  In  the 
"  morning,  so  terribly  had  he  changed,  that  a  physician  was  sent  for, 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  265 

• 

"and  when  he  came  he  said  the  attack  had  been  so  sudden,  and  the 
"  progress  of  the  disease  so  rapid,  there  was  but  little  hope  of  his 
"  recovery.  *  *  *  * 

"  In  his  delirium  he  called  wildly  for  you,  and  then  reproached 
"  you  for  your  cruelty.  I  conversed  with  him  in  his  lucid  moments, 
"  but  he  would  talk  only  of  you.  He  commissioned  me  to  give  you 
"his  full  and  free  pardon  for  the  injury"  you  had  done  him.  0, 
**  Mary  !  how  wildly  he  loved  you,  and  what  a  heart  you  have 
"  lost !  *  *  *  * 

"  Did  I  weep  when  I  read  this?  No.  for  I  could  not 
"  weep.  Had  tears  fallen,  they  should  have  been  tears 
"  of  fire,  like  those  which  burnt  into  my  breast,  or  tears 
"  of  blood,  such  as  were  falling  from  my  heart  ! 

"You  have  suffered,  and  suffered  bitterly,  Henri,  I 
"well  know;  but  you  have  never  known  the  anguish  I 
"  experienced  then,  and  you  never  can  know  it.  AYith 
%"  few  exceptions,  man  never  loves  with  such  fearful  in- 
"  tensity  as  woman  ;  Herbert  was  an  exception,  and  that 
"  was  one  reason  why  I  loved  him  so  well. 

"  I  wrote  to  Amanda,  to  send  me  the  letter ;  she 
"  complied  without  delay.  You  may  judge  of  my  sur- 
"  prise  when  I  found  that  the  writing  seemed  like  my 
"  own  ;  so  much  so,  that  those  best  acquainted  with  my 
"hand  would  have  been  deceived.  I  read  the  super- 
"  scription  when  my  father  held  the  letter  in  his  hand ; 
"  but  I  was  so  much  agitated  that  I  did  not  notice  the 
"  character  of  the  writing.  I  knew  at  a  glance  that  my 
"sister  Ellen  had  written  it;  we  had,  for  a  number  of 
23 


266  THE   HEART  UNVEILED. 

• 

"  years,  been  taught  by  the  same  master ;  and,  observ- 
"  ing  how  much  our  hands  were  alike,  we  wrote  after 
11  the  same  copies,  until  no  one  but  ourselves  could  detect 
"  the  difference.  We  frequently  wrote  articles  to  puzzle 
"  our  friends,  and  had  many  a  hearty  lauglj  at  the  mis- 
"  takes  they  made,  when  they  decided,  after  a  close 
"  scrutiny,  which  of  us  was  the  writer.  Alas  !  I  did 
"  not  dream,  then,  that  this  innocent  deception,  which 
"'  served  so  well  for  a  pleasant  pastime,  should  rob  me 
"  of  what  I  held  most  dear,  and  be  the  bane  of  my  life  ! 
"  When  at  school,  Ellen  and  I  often  wrote  in  each  other's 
"  books,  and  our  teacher  did  not  detect  us.  She  had 
"written  the  lefter  to  Herbert,  and  I  had  signed  my 
"  name  to  it.  When  I  subsequently  questioned  her 
"  about  it,  she  said  that  my  father  brought  it  to  her, 
"  and  bade  her  copy  it,  which  she  had  done,  not 
"  knowing  who  Herbert  Bending  was,  nor  what  was 
"  the  object  of  the  letter ;  she  thought  it  a  very  strange 
tl  affair,  but  she  asked  no  questions,  and  did  as  father 
"bade  her.  But  you  will  wish  to  see  the  letter;  I  want 
"  you  to  see  it.  Read  it,  Henri,  read  it ;  and  then 
"  marvel,  if  you  can,  that  it  drove  me  mad  ! 

*'  SIR  :  As  I  am  about  to  return  home  with  my  father,  it  is  time 
"  that  the  farce  should  end.  You  have  professed  to  love  me,  and  no 
*'  doubt  you  do  ;  but  you  must  have  been  a  weak  thing  to  suppose 
"  that  I  loved  you.  Don't  call  me  hard-hearted,  now  ;  for  when  a 
"  young  man,  who  is  little  better  than  a  beggar,  presumes  to  love  a 
"  gentleman's  daughter,  it  is  right  that  she  should  teach  the  puppy 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  267 

"  his  place.  You  remember  the  proverb,  «  Bought  wit  is  very  good, 
'*  if  you  do  not  buy  it  too  dear.'  You  have  paid  for  what  you  have 
"  bought,  in  love  ;  bah  !  so  the  debt  is  fully  cancelled,  and  you  may 
'*  consider  yourself  free. 

**  Do  you  marvel  that  I  could  have  manifested  so  much  love,  and 
"possessed  none,  but,  instead  thereof,  contempt?  You  are  older 
"  than  I,  but,  sir,  you  have  less  experience.  I  have  seen  men,  and 
**  women  too,  make  love  in  the  drama,  and  the  objects  to  whom  they  v 
"offered  their  adoration  they  despised.  And  yet,  how  -well  they 
"  loved,  —  how  ardently,  passionately  !  '  The  wise  see  through  it  all  ; 
"the/oo/s  weep  !  My  dear  sir,  to  which  party  do  you  belong?  I 
"  hope  not  to  the  latter  !  0,  did  I  not  play  well  the  part  of  the  silly, 
'*  love-sick  maid  ?  And  you,  sir,  acted  admirably  !  From  my  heart 
'*  I  wish  you  had  been  wiser  ;  but  you  are  wiser  than  you  were,  or 
"  you  will  be  when  you  get  this.  0,  the  blissful  moments  !  Will 
'*  they  never  return  again  ?  Alas  !  my  charming  Herbert,  I  fear 
"  they  never  will.  I  know  you  will  feel  badly,  but  it  cannot  be 
"  helped.  My  husband  is  already  chosen  ;  and,  knowing  my  true 
"  position  in  the  world,  I  have  not  chosen  a  low  churl  ! 

"  Good-by,  sir,  and  remember  to  profit  by  the  lesson  I  have  taught 
"  you  !  MARY  J.  FLANDERS. 

"  This  was  the  parting  adieu  to  the  one  I  loved  better 
"  than  life.  How  I  cursed  myself  for  my  fatal  impru- 
"  dence !  — but  I  did  not  dream,  then,  that  my  father  could 
11  do  so  foul  a  thing.  The  terrible  thought  now  oame 
"  heavy  and  crushing  upon  me,  that  I  was  Herbert's 
"  murderer  !  0,  horror  !  I  was  the  assassin  of  him 
"  whom  I  loved  with  a  devotion  that  words  cannot  ex- 
"  press.  The  thought  palsied  my  brain,  drove  the  blood 
"  back  upon  my  heart,  and  made  me  mad  !  My  mouth 


268  THE  HEAET  UNVEILED. 

"  was  parched  with  burning  heat,  my  eyes  seemed  fire, 
"and  a  tongue  of  flame  was  lapping  the  blood  of  the 
"  murdered  affections ! 

-"'Why  was  I  ever  born?'  I  cried;  '0,  cursed, 
"  thrice  cursed  be  the  hour !  Happiness,  peace,  joy, 
"  light,  farewell !  Go,  spirits  of  beauty,  that  have  min- 
"  istered  to  me  so  long  !  —  go,  I  need  you  not  now  !  Grief, 
"  sorrow,  remorse,  agony,  ye  shall  be  my  guardian 
"  angels !  Darkness,  your  great  wings,  which  are  as 
"  wide  as  the  universe,  they  shall  shelter  me  !  Love  ! 
"  get  ye  hence,  and  never  approach  me  again  !  Hatred, 
"  bitterness,  revenge,  come  to  me,  and  ye  shall  be  my 
"servants,  —  my  lo.ving,  faithful,  obedient  servants! 
"  Father,  I  hate  ye  !  I  hate  ye  as  damned  spirits  hate 
"devils!  0,  I  could  see  you  suffer  agony  a  thousand- 
"  fold  greater  and  more  horrid  than  mine,  and  laugh, — 
"ay,  laugh  with  joy,  wild  and  unutterable  joy  !  Sister, 
"as  ye  have  joined  in  this  plot  against  me,  which  has 
"made  shipwreck  of  all  my  hopes,  leaving  life  a  dark 
"  and  troubled  sea,  without  one  gleam  of  light,  without 
"  one  star  to  shine  upon  me,  I  detest  you  !  Mother  ! 
"  that  name  once  dear  !  —  if  ye  were  in  the  plot,  I 
"  repel  you  from  my  presence,  as  I  would  a  poisonous 
"  reptile  !  ' 

"  Thus  I  raved  in  my  agony,  until  my  voice  grew  so 
"  loud  and  wild  that  my  mother  and  sisters  rushed  to 
"  my  room  with  affright.  Their  presence  called  me  to 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  269 

"  myself;  my  looks  were  such  that  they  regarded  me 
"  with  astonishment.  When  they  asked  what  ailed  me, 
"I  pointed  them  to  the  letter;  it  was  a  relief  to  learn 
"  that  they  were  not  guilty. 

"  I  have  said  that  this  letter  drove  me  mad,  and' it  was 
"  true ;  not  that  I  became  a  maniac,  but  I  was  fearfully 
"  changed.  There  was  ever  a  strange  feeling  in  my  head 
"and  heart,  and  I  was  often  tempted  to  put  an  end  to 
"  my  miserable  existence.  I  was  closely  watched,  lest  I 
"  should  do  so.  My  father's  presence  was  agony  to  me ; 
"but  where  could  I  go  to  escape  it?  I  could  neither 
"  read,  write  nor  study,  nor  find  consolation  in  society. 
"  Some  of  the  time  I  was  excessively  stupid,  and  again 
"  my  brain  was  intensely  active.  I  then  realized,  for  the 
"first  time,  although  I  did  not  profit  by  it,  how  much 
"  evil  a  lack  of  principle  may  cause,  and  how  much  it 
"  had  wrought  out  for  me.  If  I  had  been  as  faithful  to 
"  truth  and  right  as  Herbert  ever  was,  he  never  would 
"have  believed,  for  an  instant,  that  that  most  fiendish 
"  letter  came  from  my  brain  or  heart.  I  had  witnessed 
"  so  much  of  his  devotedness  to  principle,  that,  had  I 
"  received  a  thousand  letters  under  similar  circum- 
"  stances,  I  could  not  have  believed  that  they  were  really 
"  from  him.  Alas  !  he  had  witnessed  so  much  deception 
"  in  me,  that  it  was  not  strange  he  believed  me  capable 
"  of  such  atrocious  conduct. 

1  {  He  once  caught  me  in  a  falsehood ;  and  many  times 
23* 


270  THE   HEART   UNVEILED. 

11  have  I  thought  how  painful  was  the  expression  that 
"  lingered  upon  his  manly  face.  I  doubt  not  but  that 
"iiis  declaration  of  love  was  delayed,  through  fear  that 
"his  happiness  would  not  be  safe  in  my  hands.  I  won- 
"  der*not  that  he  should  have  had  such  thoughts.  And 
"  there  were  times  —  though  it  gives  me  pain,  even  now, 
"  to  think  of  them  —  when  I  took  delight  in  tormenting 
"  him ;  and  I  indulged  in  them  the  more,  because  I 
"  knew  that  he  was  deyotedly  attached  to  me.  At  par- 
"  ties  I  slighted  him,  and  received  marked  attentions 
"  from  others,  when  I  knew  that  it  caused  deep  agony  in 
"  his  heart.  But,  even  then,  I  loved  him  better  than  life. 
"  After  his  declaration  of  love  I  was  more  careful ;  but 
"  I  inflicted  slight  wounds  after  that,  for  no  other  pur- 
11  pose  than  to  gratify  my  evil  propensities,  and  to  make 
"  him  feel  my  power.  I  knew  that  he  madly  loved  me  ; 
"  therefore  I  was  not  so  fearful  of  losing  him  as  I  should 
"  otherwise  have  been.  I  doubt  not  he  thought  of  all 
cc  these  things  when  he  read  that  fatal  note.  My  own 
"  wickedness  had  caused  him  to  believe  a  lie,  and 
"  destroyed  his  life  and  my  happiness. 

"  Never  was  the  nature  of  a  human  being  more  in- 
"  tensely  embittered  than  was  mine  by  this  fatal  blow.  God 
"  knows  that  I  should  have  been  bad  enough,  at  best,  bat 
"  not  so  wicked  as  I  have  been.  Under  the  influence  of 
<£  Herbert,  which  was  every  day  increasing  in  strength,  my 
"  impassioned  being  would  have  had  its  energies  directed 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  271 

"  in  a  different  channel,  and  I  should  have  been  a  bless- 
"  ing  to  myself  and  to  others.  But,  through  the  atrociouf 
"  baseness  of  my  father,  and  my  own  lack  of  truth,  Per- 
"  bert's  life  was  destroyed,  and  I  was  left  in  &rm  a 
i:  woman,  but  in  heart  a  devil !  Every  day  was  spent 
"  in  misery,  and  in  sharpening  all  my  senses,  that  I  might 
"  have  greater  hatred  in  my  heart  than  I  ever  could  have 
'  had  of  love. 

"  At  last,  I  was  introduced  to  your  father,  and  told 
"  that  he  was  the  man  selected  for  my  husband.  Under 
"  other  circumstances,  it  is  possible  that  I  might  have  loved 
"  him,  though  I  do  not  think  that  we  were  ever  adapted 
"  to  each  other;  but,  at  least,  I  could  have  treated  him  as 
1 '  a  woman  should  an  honorable  man  who  sues  for  her 
."  hand  ;  but  now  my  first  impulse  was  to  reject  him,  with 
"  scorn.  »The  second  thought,  that  he  was  the  cause  of 
"  all  my  misery,  and  I  would  marry  him  to  make  him 
"  unhappy.  I  gave  him  my  hand,  while  hatred  was  in 
"  my  heart.  The  result  was  what  I  prayed  for;  he  was 
"  wretched,  and  my  father  was  ashamed  of  me.  When 
"  children  were  born,  I  should  have  loved  not  only  them, 
"  but  their  father;  bat  I  fancied  he  had  wrought  me  a 
"  great  wrong,  and  I  could  not  forgive  or  love.  You, 
"  Henri,  resembled  him  most,  and  the  consequence  was 
"  I  loved  you  least  If  I  had  studied  your  father's 
"  heart,  I  should  have  dearly  loved  all  the  children,  and 
"  treated  him  well ;  but  I  did  not  know  it  then.  I  know 


272  THE   HEART   UNVEILED. 

"  that  I  was  not  in  my  right  mind,  or  I  should  not  have 
"been  so  blind.  I  supposed  he  had  bargained  for  me, 
*  as  one  would  bargain  for  a  horse ;  and  the  thought  made 
"  me  detest  him. 

"  After  he  died,  I  became  alarmed,  at  a  protracted 
11  meeting,  as  it  was  called,  for  my  soul's  salvation.  I 
' c  supposed  your  father  was  lost,  and  I  had  no  desire  to 
"  follow  him.  Your  father  believed  differently  from  mo^j 
li  men,  and  this  I  thought  enaugh  to  prove  his  eternal 
"  ruin.  He  thought  that  all  souls  would  finally  be  puri- 
"  fied.  That  they  would  suffer  here  for  sin,  and  suffer 
('  hereafter,  but  ultimately  be"  redeemed. 

"  Deacon  Webber,  hearing  that  I  was  anxious  for  my 
"  eternal  welfare,  called  upon  me  often ;  and,  instead  of 
"  sitting  at  Jesus'  feet,  and  learning  of  him,  I  learned  of 
"  Deacon  Webber. —  and  you  know  what  a  holy  woman  it 
"  nmde  me.  After  his  wife  died,  he  offered  his  hand  in 
"marriage,  saying  that  it  might  prove  the  salvation  of 
"  the  whole  family,  who  were  living  without  hope  and  with- 
"  out  God  in  the  world.  I  did  not  believe  that  my  chil- 
l'  dren  would  be  benefited ;  but  Deacon  Webber  was 
{J  highly  honored  in  the  church,  and  I  was  about  to  join 
£:it,  and,  should  I  become  his  wife,  I  should  receive 
'  marked  attention.  In  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  my 
"  children,  and  to  my  shame  and  sorrow,  I  married  him. 
"  I  have  found  him  to  be  a  cruel,  vile,  lascivious,  sordid 
"  hypocrite  !  I  now  shudder  when  I  am  called  Mrs.  Web- 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  273 

"  ber ;  but  I  will  not  complain,  for  it  is  meet  that  I 
"  should  suffer  for  the  wrong  which  your  father  received 
"  at  my  hands. 

"  A  year  ago,  I  was  looking  over  some  things  that 
"  were  your  father's,  and  I  found  his  diary.  I  did  not 
"  know  that  he  kept  one.  Curiosity  prompted  me  to 
"  read  it.  I  had  not  gone  through  many  pages  before  I 
"  blistered  them  with  my  tears.  I  learned  that  the  man 
li  I  had  so  fearfully  injured  was  a  good  man,  and  in 
"  marrying  me  had  acted  from  the  purest  motives.  He 
"  loved  me  when  he  first  saw  me,  and  my  father  had  told 
"  him  that  his  love  was  returned.  He  waited  until  I  was 
"  eighteen,  and  offered  himself  in  marriage,  -and  was 
"  accepted,  not  doubting  but  that  he  had  my  love.  In 
"  one  of  the  library  drawers  you  will  find  th£  journal. 
"  Read  it.  and  you  will  learn  how  wretched  was  his 
"  married  life.  My  heart  bleeds  when  I  think  of 
"  it.  Many  of  the  pages  are  stained  with  the  tears 
"  which  dropped  upon  them  while  he  penned  his  bur- 
"  dened  thoughts. 

"  The  perusal  of  those  pages  caused  me  renewed  suf- 
"  fering,  but  they  did  me  good.  They  softened  and 
"  purified  my  hard  and  blackened  heart.  They  dissi- 
"  pated  the  mists  of  error,  and.  of  madness  !  Things 
"  appeared,  0,  so  different !  But,  before  I  found  the 
"journal  of  your  father  I  had  been  made  to  see  the 
"  fearful  enormities  of  my  life,  and  I  felt  deeply  sorrow- 


274  THE   HEART   UNVEILED. 

"  fill  for  .my  many  sins.  A  sick  bed  had  not  been  in 
"  vain,  neither  had  the  cruel  treatment  of  Beacon  Web- 
"  her.  I  often  contrasted  his  life  with  that  of  your 
"father;  and  thought  how  kind  the  latter  would  have 
"  been  to  me,  if  I  had  manifested  as  much  regard  for  him 
"  as  I  had  for  the  former.  The  thought  of  the  abuse  I 
"  had  heaped  upon  him,  the  injustice  with  which  I  had 
"treated  you,  and  that  poor  little  girl,  Helen  Means, 
"  made  me  very  unhappy ;  but  I  felt  that  it  was  good  for 
"  me  that  I  should  suffer  thus,  and  I  prayed  my  God 
"  that  he  would  sanctify  these  sufferings  to  my  good,  and 
"  that,  through  them  and  his  mercy,  I  might  be  regen- 
"  erated. 

"Of  all  the  children,  I  wronged  you  the  most.  The 
"  reason  of  this  was,  because  you  were  so  hot-tempered ; 
"  and  because  your  father  always  took  your  part,  and 
"  manifested,  I  thought,  more  affection  for  you  than  for 
"  the  other  children ;  and  because  you  so  much  resembled 
"  him.  With  my  changed  views  and  feelings,  I  know  that 
"  I  love  you  dearly.  I  fear  that  you  despise  your 
"  mother ;  but  still,  I  want  to  see  you,  more  than  words 
"  can  tell.  I  have  often  thought  of  writing,  but  have  not 
"  the  courage.  I  dare  not  hope  that  you  will  ever  love 
"  me ;  but,  when  you,  read  this,  your  hatred  will  not 
"  be  increased,  and  you  will  pity  me.  My  sands  are 
"  almost  run.  and  I  hope  soon  to  be  in  a  better  world. 


THE   HEART   UNVEILED.  275 

. 

"  When  I  am  gone,  love  your  brothers  and  sisters, —  be 
"  united  and  happy.  Now,  my  dear  boy,  receive  the 
"  parting  blessing  of  your  dying  mother.  In  heaven  I 
"  will  meet  you,  where  we  shall  no  more  hate,  but  always 
"  love.  MARY  JANE  EATON." 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

HOPES   NOT   REALIZED. 

I  BEAD  this  narrative  of  wrong  and  suffering  with  an 
interest  the  most  profound.  Some  parts  of  it  caused  tears 
to  start  from  my  eyes,  and  course  rapidly  down  my  cheeks. 
I  was  not  sorry  that  she  had  left  me  this  painful  history, 
for  it  empowered  me,  after  serious  thought,  to  perceive 
her  character  in  its  true  light.  As  I  could  see  all  the 
influences  which  had  combined  so  powerfully  to  make  her 
what  she  was,  I  had  more  charity  for  her,  and.  I  felt 
there  was  more  to  love  or  compassionate,  and  less  to 
censure.  Our  friends  and  relatives,  when  they  had 
heard  these  confessions,  and  candidly  weighed  them  in  the 
balance  of  reason  and  justice,  confessed  they  could  not 
have  come  to  correct  conclusions  without  them.  Their 
opinions  were  changed  and  softened,  and  pity  for  her 
unhappy  lot  was  mingled  with  feelings  of  disapproval  of 
her  conduct. 

I  am  aware  that  the  hasty  reader  may  come  to  a  very 
different  conclusion,  and  not  think  so  well  of  her  as  he 

•j 

did  before  reading  her  confessions ;    but  this  would  be 
unjust. 


HOPES  NOT  REALIZED.  277 

I  will  briefly  place  the  whole  subject,  in  all  its  essen 
tial  bearings,  clearly  and  plainly  before  the  reader.  My 
mother  inherited  from  her  parents  a  morally  defective 
organization,  and  her  education  made  the  matter  worse. 
She  was  naturally  wilful  and  cunning,  and  could  keep 
her  thoughts  and  intentions  to  herself;  and  was  inclined 
to  work  in  secret,  when  she  could  best  accomplish  her 
object.  She  was  very  passionate,  and  often  allowed  her 
temper  to  triumph  over  her  better  judgment.  She  lacked 
principle,  and  her  father's  example  increased  the  evil. 
She  had  an  exalted  opinion  of  herself,  and  esteemed  too 
lightly  the  opinions  of  others.  Now,  as  she  was  not 
lacking  in  benevolence, ,and  had  large  intellectual  powers, 
a  keen  imagination,  an  intense  love  of  the  beautiful  and 
sublime,  had  she  been  educated  under  more  favorable 
influences,  she  would  have  been  a  very  different  being, — 
she  would  have  been  guided,  usually,  by  the  superior 
faculties  of  her  mind,  and  so  her  character  would  have 
been  almost  the  opposite  from  what  it  was. 

Her  early  training  was  not  conducive  to  the  develop 
ment  of  her  better  nature ;  and  the  outrageous  deception, 
and  the  fearful  blasting  of  her  cherished  hopes,  embit 
tered  her  whole  being,  called  the  lower  faculties  into 
active  exercise,  and  deadened  her  nobler  impulses.  She 
was  left  in  a  state  which  may  be  justly  considered  moral 
insanity.  This  view  of  the  subject,  though  defective,  I 
believe  to  be  substantially  correct.  Sinful  propensities 
24 


278  HOPES   NOT   REALIZED. 

were  inherited,  transferred  from  parent  to  child,  and 
unpropitious  circumstances  combined  to  strengthen  and 
give  them  the  control ;  and,  though  the  result  is  to  be 
deprecated,  it  could  not  well  have  been  otherwise.  It  was 
these,  and  similar  considerations,  which  caused  us  all  to 
change  our  opinions  which  we  had  long  held  in  relation 
to  my  mother,  and .  view  her  character  from  a  different 
stand-point. 

I  found,  in  this  matter,  food  for  reflection,  which  I 
required,  and  which  did  me  good.  I  thought  my  own 
course  would  have  been  very  different,  if  I  had  known 
my  mother  better, —  known  of  her  sufferings,  disappoint 
ments  and  wrongs.  Could  I  have  seen  her  heart  un 
veiled,  and  had  a  clear  understanding  of  the  causes  which 
made  it  what  it  was,  I  should  have  had  more  charity. 

I  fear  that  we  often  heap  reproaches  upon  people,  and 
treat  them  with  insult  and  contempt,  when,  could  we  know 
all,  we  should  commiserate  their  unfortunate  lot,  and 
strive  to  make  them  happier,  rather  than  render  them 
more  wretched.  Instead  of  looking,  with  truth-seeking 
eyes,  to  learn  the  causes  of  wrong-doing,  we  jump  at  con 
clusions,  and  judge  the  offender  worthy  of  naught  but 
stripes  and  death,  forgetting  that,  had  the  same  circum 
stances  surrounded  us,  we  should  have  been  as  bad,  and 
perhaps  worse.  We  show  but  little  mercy  to  the  crimi 
nal,  though  he  may  be  the  victim  of  circumstances  beyond 
his  control.  If  society,  by  laws,  manners  and  customs, 


HOPES    NOT   REALIZED.  +'  279 

educates  men  for  crime,  we  punish  them  none  the*  less 
severely.  We  feel  that  justice  should  be  done,  "  though 
the  heavens  fall ;  "  and  yet  are  guilty  of  the  worst  species 
of  injustice  ourselves.  It  is  so  with  society  in  general ; 
it  is  so  with  individuals. 

My  mother's  confessions  I  read  to  all  our  friends  and 
relatives,  that  they  might  view  her  character  through  the 
clear  medium  of  unvarnished  truth.  I  was  happy  to  find 
that  it  changed  and  softened  the  opinions  and  feelings  of  all. 

It  was  now  the  first  month  in  summer, —  the  month  of 
roses,  bright  days,  sweet  zephyrs  and  clear  skies.  I 
have  always  loved  June,  very,  very  much.  When  is  the 
earth  so  beautiful,  the  air  so  fragrant,  and  the  sunbeams 
so  golden  and  delightful  ?  What  gorgeous  robes  the  trees 
put  on, —  robes  of  greenest  leaves  and  brightly-tinted 
flowers, 

"  Till  the  whole  forest  stands  displayed 
In  full  luxuriance  to  the  sighing  gales, 


the  country  far  diffused  around 


One  boundless  blush,  one  white  empurpled  shower 
Of  mingled  blossoms,  where  the  raptured  eye 
Hurries  from  joy  to  joy, ."  * 

Such  is  June  in  New  England,  and  hence  it  is  the 
most  beautiful  month  in  all  the  year.  In  this  description 
the  latter  part  of  May  should  be  included. 

*  Thomson. 


280  •  HOPES   NOT   REALIZED. 

• 

More  than  twelve  months  had  passed  since  I  had  parted 
from  Helen  Means,  leaving  her  in  tears.  Since  my  return, 
a  thousand  things  had  prevented  my  visiting  her.  The 
longer  I  delayed,  the  more  impatient  I  grew  ;  for  I  was 
anxious  to  hear  from  her  own  sweet  lips  that  she  loved 
me. 

Everything  being  now  arranged,  so  that  I  could  spend 
as  much  time  at  my  uncle's  as  I  might  desire,  I  set  off, 
with  high  hopes  of  speedily  winning  and  wearing  the 
brightest  gem  which  earth  or 'heaven  contained  for  me. 
A  few  hours'  ride  brought  me  to  the  long-wished-for  goal. 
My  feelings  now  became  warm  and  excited,  and  I  rushed 
impetuously  into  the  house,  supposing,  of  course,  that 
Helen  would  fly  to  my  arms,  and  hold  me  in  a  passion 
ate  embrace.  I  knew  she  would,  if  she  felt  as  I  did. 

Hearing  the  piano,  I  bent  my  steps  to  the  parlor,  and 
there,  as  I  expected  and  desired,  was  Helen,  alone.  She 
was  playing  a  beautiful  tune,  and  so  absorbed  in  the 
music  that  she  did  not  observe  me  when  I  entered  the 
room.  I  stood  for  a  moment,  and  gazed  upon  her  in 
mingled  admiration  and  surprise.  One  year  had  changed 
her  very  much.  She  was  now  a  beautiful  woman,  with 
her  pure,  elevated  soul  looking  out  of  her  eyes,  beaming 
from  her  countenance. 

I  thought  I  would  approach  her  unobserved.  She  heard 
my  step,  looked  around  and  saw  me  ;  but,  instead  of  rush 
ing  into  my  arms,  she  arose  from  her  seat  very  deliber- 


HOPES   NOT   REALIZED.  281 

ately,  extending  me  her  hand,  bidding  me  welcome  home 
again.  She  seemed  perfectly  calm,  except  that  she 
became  paler,  her  lip  quivered  a  little,  and  her  hand 
slightly  trembled.  She  was  paler,  I  noticed,  as  she  sat 
at  the  piano,  than  when  I  had  last  seen  her,  and  about 
her  eyes  was  the  sad  look  of  her  childhood.  It  lay  there, 
as  the  shadow  of  death  lies  upon  the  face  of  a  lovely  cherub 
child,  not  marring  but  softening  the  tints  of  its  light  and 
beauty. 

"  Welcome  home  again,  Henri !  "  she  said  ;  "  I  am 
very  happy  to  see  you.  Your  health  is  good,  I  hope." 

I  was  not  prepared  for  this  stoical  coolness,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt  at  a  loss  what  to  do  or  say. 

"  My  health  is  —  very  good.  You  look  pale.  Are 
you  not  well  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  healthy  as  I  was  a  year  ago;  but  hope 
to  be,  a  year  hence." 

"  Yes  —  so  do  I,  —  I  mean  —  that  I  hope  you  will 
be  well  soon." 

"  We  have  beautiful  weather  now;  it  was  cTelightful 
when  you  left  us,  a  year  ago.  But  June  is  more  beauti 
ful  than  May." 

"  The  weather  is  more  beautiful,  I  think  ;  but  I  fear  — 
that  —  you  —  we  have  changed  too." 

"  Most  likely.  But  do  you  mean  that  we  have  changed 
for  the  better  ?  Was  it  May  then  with  our  hearts,  and 
is  it  June  now?  " 

24* 


282  HOPES   NOT   REALIZED. 

"  I  fear  not,  unless  June  is  much  colder  than  May.  I 
do  not  like  the  change ;  for  there  is  more  of  shadow,  and 
less  of  sunlight." 

"  We  can  judge  more  correctly  when  we  learn  what 
effect  new  scenes  have  had  upon  you.  New  York,  I  am 
told,  is  a  bad  place  for  a  young  man." 

"Helen!" 

"  Nay,  do  .not  be  alarmed.  I  think  you  have  too 
much  principle  to  do  anything  very  vicious ;  but  we  are 
all  liable  to  err  when  we  are  surrounded  by  temptations." 

"  Helen,  how  you  have  changed !  " 

"  So  have  you." 

"  But  not  as  you  have." 

"  I  suppose  not.  A  year  changes  us  all ;  but  the 
change  in  each  one  is  not  general,  but  individual." 

"I  did  not  mean  that." 

"  Then  you  must  explain,  or  I  cannot  get  at  your 
meaning." 

"  I  will  do  so.  Your  friendly  regards  and  feelings  for 
me  have' changed." 

"0,  no  !  they  never  were  stronger  than  they  are  at 
this  moment.  And  when  I  thought  that  marriage  would 
end  those  sweet  relations  which  had  existed  between  us 
for  so  many  years,  I  prayed  as  ardently  for  your  happi 
ness  as  I  ever  had  done." 

"  But  marriage  can  never  end  them." 

"  Circumstances  have  already  changed  them,  as  you 


HOPES  NOT   REALIZED.  283 

well  know;  and  at  some  future  time  marriage  may 
annihilate  them." 

"  No,  no,  Helen !  I  will  never  marry,  unless  I 
marry " 

"  Your  uncle  and  aunt  are  in  the  library.  Come,  let 
me  introduce  you  to  them ;  they  will  be  rejoiced  to  see 
you." 

"  Not  now,  Helen  ;  I  would  talk  with  you  longer.  I 
was  about  to  say " 

"You  will  stay  with  us  many  weeks,  I  hope,  and 
there  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  pleasant  chat, —  come." 
And  she  led  the  way  to  the  library,  and  I  could  do  no 
less  than  follow  her. 

This  was  a  reception  I  had  not  dreamed  of,  and  it  was 
some  days  before  I  could  summon  sufficient  courage  to 
approach  again  the  delicate  subject.  After  repeatedly 
urgent  requests,  she  consented  to  take  a  walk  with  me  to 
•visit  our  old  familiar  haunts.  It  was  a  beautiful  sum 
mer  evening,  and  the  sun-  was  just  sinking  to  his  rest. 
Not  a  cloud  was  in  the  sky,  and  everything  was  hushed 
into  stillness.  She  provokingly  refused  to  take  my  arm, 
preferring,  as  she  said,  to  walk  alone,  being  so  much 
accustomed  to  it.  We  wandered  from  spot  to  spot,  where 
we  had  often  been  before ;  and,  as  we  conversed  of  those 
dear  old  times,  reserve  and  coldness  seemed  to  leave  us, 
and  we  were  to  each  other  what  we  Ittd  been.  She  was 
again  my  own  Helen ;  and  when  I  took  her  arm  and 


284  HOPES   NOT   REALIZED. 

placed  it  within  mine,  she  made  no  resistance,  but 
seemed  pleased  to  have  it  there. 

We  walked  on,  until  we  came  to  the  dearest  spot  of 
all.  It  was  at  the  foot  of  a  green  hill,  where  a  limpid 
stream  of  water  flowed  down  its  sides,  arid  made  beautiful 
all  the  valley  below.  Here  was  a  very  large  rock,  some 
fifty  feet  high.  It  was  solid  granite.  At  its  base,  front 
ing  the  valky,  was  a  niche,  so  designed  as  to  make  a 
convenient  seat  for  two.  It  had  the  appearance  of  having 
been  formed  by  the  hand  of  man.  In  front  of  this  seat 
were  a  number  of  maple-trees,  a  few  rods  apart,  in  the 
form  of  a  half-circle.  The  brook  leaped  down  at  one 
side  of  the  rock,  wound  around  it  near  its  base,  also  in 
the  form  of  a  circle ;  it  then  turned  again,  passed  by  the 
trees,  and  formed  another  circle  beyond  them.  Between 
the  rock  and  brook,  brook  and  trees,  and  brook  again, 
was  an  undulating  surface,  covered  with  green  grass  and 
beautiful  flowers.  Here  the  winds  made  music  in  the 
trees ;  here  the  stream  made  music  as  it  leaped  from 
the  hill  and  rock;  here  the  flowers  smiled,  and  loaded 
the  frolicsome  breezes  with  fragrance. 

I  seated  Helen,  and  took  my  place  by  her  side.  My 
arm  was  around  her  as  of  yore,  and  one  of  her  hands 
was  clasped  in  mine.  We  talked  long  of  the  good  old 
times,  when  we  were  seldom  apart,  and  life  seemed  like 
a  rosy  dream.  J^e  spoke  of  the  time  that  we  were 
separated, —  of  the  events  which  then  transpired.  I  made 


HOPES  NOT   REALIZED.  285 

bold  to  speak  of  Irene  Dinneford ;  and,  at  Helen's  re 
quest,  described  her  person,  manners,'  accomplishments, 
mind  and  heart. .  I  gave  her  a  brief  account  of  our  first 
acquaintance,  our  succeeding  interviews,  my  rescuing 
her  in  the  moment  of  peril,  our  engagement  and  it3 
close.  Helen  listened  attentively,  and  remarked,  when  I 
had  done, 

"  She  must  be  a  beautiful  girl,  Henri;  and  I  wonder 
how  you  could  so  readily  have  given  her  up  !  " 

"  She  did  not  truly  love  me,  Helen/'  I  replied;  "and 
I  did  not  love  her  with  that  devotion  which  is  requisite 
for  one  constituted  as  I  am." 

"  I  am  surprised  that  you  did  not  love  her !  And  she 
is  to  be  married  soon,  you  say  ?  " 

' '  Yes,  and  to  one  who  is  worthy  of  her.  They  are 
two  noble  spirits,  and  love  each  other  with  undying 
affection." 

"  Their  life  will  be  happy,  then.  You  ought  to  be 
thankful  that  you  found  out,  before  too  late,  what  her 
true  feelings  were." 

"  I  am  thankful,  Helen;  but,  if  I  had  not,  I  do  not 
think  I  could  have  married  her." 

"  Under  the  circumstances,  I  cannot  see  how  it  could 
have  been  prevented.  You  were  solemnly  engaged  to 
her,  and  also  engaged  in  partnership  with  her  father ; 
and  the  wedding-day  was  fixed,  and  close  at  hand.  When 


286  HOPES   NOT   REALIZED. 

I  get  entangled  thus,  I  am  very  sure  that  it  will  result 
in  marriage." 

"  I  should  have  found  some  way  of  escape,  for  I  knew 
that  my  whole  heart  was  elsewhere !  " 

"  You  mean  that  some  one  else  had  won  it,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  If  you  had  said  that  some  other  person  had  a  part 
of  your  heart,  I  could  have  believed  you ;  but,  when  a 
young  man  voluntarily  enters  into  an  engagement  with  a 
lady,  and,  on  that  account,  makes  business  arrangements 
which  are  distasteful  to  him,  and  not  influenced  in  the 
least  by  the  expectation  of  obtaining  wealth,  I  cannot 
believe  that  any  other  being  has  all  his  heart." 

"  But  you  do  not  think  that  I  had  given  it  all  to 
Irene?" 

"  0,  no.  She  had  a  part,  and  somebody  else  a  part; 
and  perhaps  there  was  a  third  or  fourth,  to  share  in  the 
coveted  treasure  !  " 

u  Ysu  are  joking,  now." 

"  Not  by  any  means ;  for  I  believe  every  word  I  have 
said." 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  possible  for  a  man  to  love  a 
woman  —  some  cherished  one  —  very  dearly,  and  not 
realize  it  ?  And  could  he  not  pledge  himself  to  another, 
whom  he  greatly  admired ;  and,  after  that,  for  the  first 
time  become  aware  of  the  fact  that  the  former  had  his 
heart,  and  not  the  latter  ?  " 


HOPES   NOT   REALIZED.  287 

"  I  can  imagine  such  a  case,  but  I  cannot  appreciate 
that  kind  of  love. 

"  And  would  not  be  thankful  for  its  manifestation  1 " 

"  Certainly  not,  for  I  should  wish  for  something 
better." 

"  If  one  who  loved  you  should  do  as  I  have,  how  could 
he  satisfy  you  of  whole-souled,  devoted  love  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  difficult  question  to  answer." 

"  I  should  not  suppose  it  very  difficult." 

"  Different  persons  would  view  the  matter  in  a  different 
light ;  —  but  shall  we  not  return  ?  —  the  evening  grows 
damp." 

"It  is  not  very  damp,  and  it  is  so  warm  the  falling 
dew  will  not  prove  injurious.  Don't  let  us  go  yet,  for 
I  have  not  said  half  that  I  wish  to." 

"  We  can  talk  on  our  way  home." 

"  But  it  is  very  pleasant  setting  here." 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  very  pleasant  rambling  about,  when 
the  moon  shines  so  beautifully." 

"  I  would  rather  sit"  still  and  talk,  when  the  subject  so 
comes  home  to  the  heart." 

"  And  I  would  not,  on  such  a  night  as  this." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  one  could  not  gain  your  love, 
if  he  had  offered  himself  to  another  ?  " 

"Perhaps  so,  and  perhaps  not,"  she  said,  rising  from 
her  seat.  "  I  am  for  having  a  dance  with  the  brook. 


288  HOPES   NOT   REALIZED. 

* 

How  softly  it  sings  and  talks  !  Maybe  it  is  making  love 
to  the  flowers." 

"  I  wish  it  would  teach  me  to  make  love." 

"  Perhaps  it  will,  if  you  ask  it  to." 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  it  ?" 

"  Say  what  you  please  ;  I  cannot  be  your  teacher." 

"  Will  you  interpret  its  answers  ?  " 

«  0,  no  !  —  why  should  I  ?  " 

"  Because  you  are  better  acquainted  with  its  language 
than  I  am." 

"How  did  you  learn  that  fact,  admitting  it  to  be 
one?" 

"  I  took  the  privilege  of  a  Yankee,  and  guessed. 
Besides,  I  knew  that  from  a  child  you  loved  all  things 
which  were  beautiful,  and  understood  their  language." 

"  I  am  well  learned,  then.  But  I  am  quite  anxious  to 
hear  you  talk  to  the  little  sparkling  drops  that  go  leap 
ing  and  dancing  over  the  rocks.  Sometimes  I  think 
they  clap  their  hands  for  joy." 

"  Your  imagination  is  active,  to-night.  But  I  will  try 
and  gratify  you.  '  Most  beautiful  water-spirits,  ye  who 
coquet  all  day  with  the  sunbeams,  who  leap  down  the  hill 
sides,  and  move  gently  through  the  valleys, —  who  sing  so 
sweetly  your  evening  songs,  making  love  to  the  flowers, 
forming  yourselves  into  a  mirror  for  the  moon  and  stars, 
—  teach  me,  ye  bright  angels,  how  to  gain  the  heart  of 
the  one  I  love  —  '  " 


HOPES   NOT   REALIZED.  289 

I  was  here  interrupted  by  a  loud  laugh  from  Helen. 

"  That  was  capital,"  she  said,  "  and  so  poetical !  The 
water- spirits  ought  to  feel  flattered.  But  they  will  not 
tell  you ;  for  they  would  be  afraid  that,  by  the  time  you 
had  gained  it,  you  would  be  in  love  with  somebody  else." 

"  You  are  a  cruel  girl !  " 

"  0,  no,  Henri ;  not  a  bit  cruel.  But  hark  !  the  bell 
is  ringing  nine ;  it  is  time  to  go  home." 

"  I  would  rather  stay  longer,  but  will  do  as  you  say." 

On  our  way  home  we  talked  upon  various  subjects, 
but  I  could  not  gain  courage  sufficient  to  offer  her  my 

hand  and  heart. 

25 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

TWICE   REJECTED. 

WHEN  we  had  arrived  at  the  house,  Helen  went  to 
her  room,  and  I  to  the  parlor;  where  I  found  uncle, 
aunt,  and  a  young  man  whom  they  introduced  as  Mr. 
Gray.  A  few  commonplace  remarks  were  made,  and 
we  were  relapsing  into  silence,  when  Helen  came  in. 
She  appeared  very  glad  to  see  Mr.  Gray,  and  took  a 
seat  by  his  side ;  and  they  were  soon  absorbed  in  a  con 
versation  —  carried  on  in  an  undertone  —  that  nobody 
could  understand  but  themselves.  I  sat  and  looked  on 
with  feelings  more  easily  imagined  than  described.  I 
was  really  jealous,  and  wished  Mr.  Gray  anywhere  but 
there.  It  was  bad  enough  to  find  Helen's  feelings  so 
different  from  what  I  had  expected;  but  to  meet  with  a 
rival  so  soon,  and  be  obliged  to  endure  his  presence, 
while  he  appropriated  Helen  entirely  to  himself,  was  too 
much.  I  was  as  unhappy  as  I  could  reasonably  be. 

They  conversed  for  some  thirty  minutes  together,  and 
then  we  entered  into  a  general  conversation.  I  was 
anxious  to  find  him  a  fool,  for  I  thought  she  could  not 
love  a  man  without  good  sense.  His  remarks  convinced 


TWICE   REJECTED.  291 

me  that  he  was  not  a  fool,  and  neither  was  he  very 
intelligent.  I  was  certain  that  he  was  far  beneath 
Helen,  and  this  gave  me  a  vast  deal  of  satisfaction.  At 
his  request,  Helen  played  •  and  sang ;  and  he  took  the 
liberty  to  stand  near  her,  select  the  music  and  turn  over 
the  leaves,  with  which  she  seemed  well  pleased.  When 
she  relinquished  her  seat,  my  uncle  desired  Mr.  Gray  to 
occupy  it ;  and  he  complied  with  the  request,  and  played 
very  beautifully.  "  At  least,"  thought  I,  "  there  is  one 
thing  about  him  which  will  be  attractive  to  Helen, —  his 
love  of  music." 

I  remained  until  after  ten  o'clock ;  and,  as  Mr.  Gray 
did  not  manifest  any  intentions  of  going,  and  fearing  that 
my  room  was  preferable  to  my  company,  I  bade  them  good 
night,  and  went  to  my  chamber.  It  was  between  eleven 
and  twelve  when  he  took  his  departure.  I  was  then  too 
jealous  and  miserable  to  expect  to  sleep,  if  I  sought  my 
bed ;  so  I  remained  up  long  enough  to  compose  the  fol 
lowing  lines,  which  I  insert,  not  because  of  their  poetical 
merit,  but  because  they  serve  to  show  the  state  of  my 
mind  at  that  time.  A  very  little  thing  made  me  jealous, 
and  fearful  that  Helen  had  given  her  heart  to  another. 

I  know  a  glad  and  beautiful  maiden, 

Who  warbles  a  bird-like  glee  ; 
And  when  my  heart  is  wearily  laden, 

She  sings  her  songs  to  me  ; 


292  TWICE    REJECTED. 

I  clasp  her  hand  —  her  eyes  meet  mine, 
Till  my  cheeks  with  tears  are  wet  ; 

I  bask  in  smiles  that  seem  divine,  — 
And  her  I  would  forget  ! 

By  herside  I  've  sat  when  fleeting  hours 

Were  full  of  heaven  to  me, 
And  thought  the  blest  in  Eden's  bowers 

Not  half  so  happy  as  we  ; 
I  never  knew  such  rapturous  bliss 

Till  thus  our  souls  had  met, 
I  wished  no  greater  joy  than  this,  — 

And  her  I  would  forget ! 

I  love  this  glad  and  beautiful  maiden, 

Who  warbles  a  bird-like  glee, 
And  fancy  I  dwell  in  blissful  Aidenn 

When  she  sings  her  songs  to  me. 
Her  angel-face,  bewitching  eyes, 

Have  all  my  thoughts  beset, 
More  beautiful  than  starry  skies,  — 

And  her  I  would  forget  ! 

How  long  I  've  prayed  that  she  might  love  me  !  — 

Alas  !  my  prayers  are  vain; 
My  lot  is  dark,  like  skies  above  me, 

That  lower  with  storm  and  rain  ; 
I  've  loved  her  as  I  've  loved  no  other,  — 

'T  is  useless,  sad  regret, 
She  loves  me  not,  but  loves  another, — 

And  her  I  would  forget  ! 

After  I  had  finished  the  above,  I  retired  ;   but  it  was 
nearly  morning  before  I  fell  asleep,  and  then  I  dreamed 


TWICE   REJECTED.  293 

that  Helen  was  married  to  Mr.  Gray.  I  fancied  that  I 
saw  her  standing  at  the  altar,  looking  too  beautiful  to 
unite  her  fate  to  a  mortal.  While  a  sweet,  angelic  smile 
played  upon  her  countenance,  she  gave  her  hand  to  Mr. 
Gray,  and  was  lost  to  me  forever. 

My  agitation  was  so  great,  that  I  awoke, —  and  I  was  so 
happy  to  find  it  a  dream !  The  sun  was  just  rising  from 
his  ocean  bed,  as  I  arose  and  dressed  myself,  and  sat 
down  by  the  open  window,  to  let  the.  fresh  air  cool  my 
fevered  brow.  As  I  sat  surveying  the  beautiful  scene 
which  lay  before  me.  I  espied  Helen  returning  from  a 
morning  walk,  in  company  with  Mr.  Gray. 

Reader,  you  may  think  it  a  little  thing ;  you  may 
think  that  I  was  very  silly;  but  the  first  glance  of  them 
caused  a  pang  to  shoot  through  my  heart,  bitter  as  death. 
My  suspicions  that  he  was  her  accepted  lover  were  now 
confirmed,  and  the  thought  was  agony.  "If  it  is  so," 
I  said,  "  let  me  die,  for  there  is  no  more  joy  for  me !" 
I  tried  to  despise  her  for  loving  one  so  much  her  infe 
rior,  and  to  persuade  myself  that,  were  he  her  equal,  I 
could  bear  to  see  her  love  and  marry  him.  When  they 
had  arrived  within  a  few  rods  of  the  house,  they  bade 
each  other  good-morning,  and  he  walked  hastily  towards 
the  village.  I  went  down  stairs,  and  met  her  at  the 
door. 

"Good-morning,"  she  said,  in  a  sprighfly  tone. 

"  Good- morning,"  I  replied  j  "  you  walk  early." 


294  TWICE   REJECTED. 

"I  do,  occasionally ;  but  no  earlier  than  we  used  to 
ramble,  before  you  went  to  New  York." 

11 1  suppose  your  morning  walks  are  more  pleasant 
than  they  were  then." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Present  appearances." 

"  They  are  not  more  pleasant,  Henri ;  and  I  don't 
expect  them  to  be,  for  they  were  very  pleasant  then." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  But  who  is  this  Mr. 
Gray,  who  seems  to  be  so  very  attentive  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mr.  Gray,  to  be  sure." 

"  I  was  aware  of  that  fact.  But  where  is  he  from  ?  — 
what  is  his  business?  —  how  long  have  you  been 
acquainted  with  him  ?  " 

u  He  is  my  music-teacher,  a  distant  relative  of  Mrs. 
Stewart's  ;  and  came  into  the  country  from  Boston,  early 
in  the  spring,  for  his  health." 

"  And  does  he  not  hold  any  other  relation  to  you  than 
that  of  a  teacher  of  music  1 " 

"  I  trust  he  does." 

"  I  thought  as  much." 

"  He  is  my  friend,  Henri,  and  I  hope  he  may  be 
yours." 

"  Your  lover,  you  mean." 

"No,  not  a  lover." 

"Bo  you  speak  truly?" 

"  He  has  never  formally  proposed." 


TWICE   EEJECTED.  295 

* 

"  But  will  soon? " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"  I  think  he  has  no  such  thought  or  intention." 

"  What  should  you  say,  if  he  did  1 " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Don't  know,  Helen?" 

11  How  should  I,  when  I  do  not  anticipate  any  such 
result  ?  But  what  foolish  questions  you  are  asking  me,, 
this  morning  !  I  shall  not  answer  any  more." 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  home  to-day." 

"  So  soon  ?  You  cannot  be  in  earnest.  Why,  you 
have  but  just  arrived.  You  must  not  go  to-day.  Come, 
look  more  cheerful,  and  say  that  you  will  stay  a  good 
long  time." 

"  I  cannot  promise  you,  Helen  ;  but,  if  you  wish  it,  I 
will  not  go  to-day." 

"  Nor  to-morrow  neither  ?  " 

"  Nor  to-morrow." 

"  Now  you  talk  like  yourself.  I  shall  not  let  you  go 
at  present,  I  warrant  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  cannot  spare  you." 

"I  should  suppose  you  might." 

"And  there  you  are  mistaken.  Why,  you  have  been 
absent  more  than  a  year !  " 

"0,  Helen,  I  could  stay  forever,  if  you  bade  me !  " 


296  TWICE   REJECTED. 

• 

"  Then  I  shall  use  my  authority  not  to  keep  you  for 
ever  ;  for  you  have  other  friends,  and  it  would  be  unjust, 
—  but  long  enough,  at  least,  to  learn  what  effect  New 
York  society  has  had  upon  you." 

"  Don't  mention  New  York,  for  I  hate  the  sound." 

"  Well,  I  will  not,  if  you  so  desire.  But  I  fear  you 
have  grown  irritable  in  your  absence." 

"I  fear  I  shall." 

"But  I  shall  not  allow  it." 

"  You  can  prevent  it." 

"  Can  I  ?  Then  I  shall  do  so.  But  I  must  not  stand 
and  talk  with  you  longer  now,  or  you  will  miss  those 
warm  biscuits  at  breakfast  you  once  liked  so  much." 

So  saying,  she  darted  in  to  her  work,  while  I  went  to  a 
walk,  to  indulge  in  not  very  pleasant  reflections. 

I  thought  how  different  Helen  appeared  now  to  what 
she  did  when  I  left  her,  a  year  ago.  She  must  have 
changed  more  than  I.  I  blamed  myself  for  ever  having 
thought  of  marrying  another,  and  wondered  how  I  could 
have  been  so  mad.  It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  I 
thought  of  returning  home ;  and  I  had  not  parted  many 
minutes  from  Helen,  before  I  was  sorry  that  I  had  said 
anything  about  it.  But  it  was  some  comfort  to  have  her 
urge  me  to  stay.  It  gave  me  a  little  bit  of  hope. 

Mr.  Gray  cume  in  the  afternoon,  and  gave  her  a  lesson 
in  music.  At  her  request,  I  was  present.  A  few  days 
after,  he  came,  stopped  to  tea,  and  spent  the  evening. 


TWICE   REJECTED.  297 

Helen  occupied  so  much  of  the  time  with  him  in  conver 
sation,  that,  when  I  left  them,  at  ten,  I  was  so  unhappy, 
and  so  jealous,  that  I  could  not  control  my  feelings,  and 
walked  my  chamber,  pouring  execrations  upon  the  unof 
fending  Gray.  They  had  appeared  happy ;  but  what  a 
wretched  evening  had  it  been  to  me !  I  again  thought  of 
returning  home.  Mr.  Gray  remained  but  a  few  moments 
after  I  had  retired. 

In  the  morning  I  was  little  disposed  to  take  my  leave. 
I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  being  away  from  Helen, 
lest  somebody  else  should  win  her.  It  was  happiness  to 
be  near  her,  though  she  gave  me  little  reason  to 
hope  that  I  might  ultimately  gain  her  heart.  Every  day 
I  had  the  same  feelings,  until  three  weeks  had  passed 
away,  and  I  was  apparently  no  nearer  the  attainment  of 
my  wishes  than  when  I  first  came.  She  appeared 
friendly,  and  manifested  a  sisterly  regard  for  me, — noth 
ing  more.  Sometimes  I  could  with  difficulty  control  my 
feelings.  I  wanted  to  clasp  her  in  my  arms,  and  call  her 
my  own. 

We  frequently  spent  part  of  the  evening  alone,  and, 
more  than  once,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  her  to 
give  me  her  heart  and  hand ;  but,  before  I  could  bring 
sufficient  courage  to  my  aid,  we  were  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  uncle  and  aunt,  or  that  hated  Gray. 

Many  of  my  readers  have  been  placed  in  similar  cir 
cumstances,  and  so  they  can  appreciate  my  feelings.  The 


298  TWICE    REJECTED. 

one  you  loved  best  was  near  you,  and  you  had  summoned 
sufficient  courage  to  take  one  of  her  hands;  and,  al 
though  it  struggled  a  little  for  freedom,  you  held  on  to 
it.  In  this  situation  you  had  talked  of  various  things, 
approaching  gradually  that  subject  which  interested  you 
most  of  all ;  but.  whenever  you  had  come  almost  to  it, 
when  the  way  was  fairly  opened  for  a  declaration  of  love, 
the  whole  thing  looked  so  presumptuous  and  doubtful, 
that  you  would  sit  in  silence  for  a  time,  and  then  you 
would  go  back  and  begin  again.  By  such  evolutions 
your  courage  was  at  last  screwed  up  to  the  sticking  point, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked  the  father  or 
mother,  or  some  other  equally  unwelcome  visitor.  This 
was  exactly  my  case,  for  more  than  once ;  but  my  time 
came  finally. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fifth  of  July  we  were  alone,  and 
there  was  no  one  to  interrupt  us.  We  conversed  upon 
various  subjects,  but  principally  of  romance  and  poetry. 
She  had  lately  read  a  volume  of  Motherwell,  and  was  in 
raptures  with  it.  She  handed  it  to  me,  and  requested  me 
to  read  aloud.  I  did  so.  choosing  those  pieces  which  would 
best  convey  the  passionate  emotions  of  my  own  heart, 
such  as,  "  0,  Agony  !  Keen  Agony  !  "  "  The  Night's 
Song,"  &c. 

My  whole  heart  was  in  the  sentiment  of  the  author, 
and  I  read  with  feeling  and  pathos  such  lines  as  the 
following  : 


TWICE   REJECTED.  299 

•'  0,  agony  !  fierce  agony  ! 
For  loving  heart  to  brook, 
In  one  brief  hour,  the  withering  power 
Of  uuimpassioned  look  ! 

*'  0,  agony  !  deep  agony  ! 

For  heart  that 's  proud  and  high, 
To  learn  of  fate  how  desolate 
It  ntay  be  ere  it  die  !  " 

»*'  Endearing  !     Endearing  ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Are  those  dark,  lustrous  eyes, 

Through  their  silk  fringes  peering  ? 
They  love  me  !  they  love  me  ! 

Deeply,  —  sincerely  ; 
•  And,  more  than  aught  else  on  earth, 
I  love  them  dearly. 

"  Endearing  !  endearing ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Glows  the  glad  sunny  smile, 

On  thy  soft  cheek  appearing  ? 
It  brightens  !  it  brightens  ! 

As  I  am  near  ing  ; 
And  't  is  thus  that  thy  fond  smile 

Is  ever  endearing." 

As  I  read  on,  throwing  more  of  heart  and  soul  into 
each  poem,  Helen  became  wholly  swallowed  up  in  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  expressed.  Her  eyes  glowed  with 
that  enrapturing  spiritual  beauty  which  partakes  more 


300  TWICE   REJECTED. 

of  heaven  than  earth ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her 
bosom  heaved  with  deep  emotion.  I  paused,  and  looked 
at  her,  spell-bound.  We  sat  some  moments  motionless 
as  statues,  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes,  which  seemed 
gushing  with  burning  words,  while  our  tongues  were 
paralyzed  with  hope  and  fear.  Presently  she  turned  her 
head,  and  burst  into  tears.  I  felt  that  now  was  the  time 
to  learn  my  fate ;  and  I  caught  hold  of  her  hands,  and 
exclaimed,  "  0,  Helen,  this  is  too  much  !  Suspense  is 
agony,  and  I  cannot  bear  it !  I  love  you,  Helen, —  I  love 
only  you ;  and  now  you  cannot,  will  not,  refuse  to  make 
me  happy  !  " 

With  a  sad  expression  upon  her  face,  and  withdrawing 
her  hands  from  mine,  she  said : 

"  Henri,  I  wish  —  I  am  sorry  for  this  !  If  anything 
that  I  have  done  has  caused  you  to  ma'ke  this  declaration, 
I  ask  your  pardon;  I  did  net  intend  it,  nor  wish  it." 

"Why  are  you  sorry?  It  is  not  right  for  you  to 
regret  it ;  and,  if  you  consult  your  own  heart,  it  will  tell 
you  so.  I  cannot  doubt  but  that  its  emotions  respond  to 
mine." 

"  Nay,  Henri,  you  flatter  yourself  too  much  !  " 
"  Your  words  are  cruel  as  the  grave ;  they  cannot  be 
true,  for  I  believe  that  you  love  me." 
"  I  hope  you  will  rest  satisfied,  then." 
"  But  I  would  rather  hear  it  from  your  own  lips." 
"  You  would  not  have  me  utter  that  which  is  false  7  " 


TWICE   REJECTED.  301 

"  No ;  but  you  cannot  mean  that  it  would  be  false. 
0,  Helen  !  do  not  keep  me  in  suspense,  but  tell  me  at 
once  that  you  will  gratify  the  dearest  and  most  sacred 
wishes  of  my  heart !  " 

I  paused  for  a  reply,  but  she  uttered  not  a  word  ; 
her  head  was  resting  upon  her  hand,  as  if  in  deep 
thought. 

''  How  shall  I  interpret  this  silence,  Helen?  Give 
me  but  one  word,  one  look,-  one  sign  that  I  am  beloved, 
and  I  will  be  satisfied  !  "' 

She  remained  silent,  and  I  was  about  to  clasp  her  to 
my  heart,  when  she  said, 

"  Henri,  this  scene  is  very  painful  to  me,  and  I  wish, 
for  the  happinesp  of  both,  that  it  had  not  occurred. 
Whenever  I  say  to  any  being  *  I  love  you,'  those  words 
will  be  most  sacred,  most  holy,  and  they  will  never  be 
recalled  ;  but,  should  I  say  them  to  you  now.  I  might 
have  cause  to  take  them  back." 

"  Never,  Helen,  for  you  would  have  my  whole  heart 
in  exchange  for  yours  !  You  do  love  me,  dearest  ?  " 

11 1  have  not  told  you  so,  and  it  is  possible  for  you  to 
be  mistaken." 

"  No,  no  '   I  cannot  be !     I  am  convinced,   by  that 

sweet,  entrancing  glance  that  was  fixed  upon  me  but  just 

now,    that   your   heart   must   be    mine—  for  I   read   its 

thoughts  and  emotions  in  your  eyes.     Then  do  not  con- 

26 


TWICE   REJECTED. 

tinue  my  unhappiness,  by  refusing  to  confess  a  truth 
which  will  fill  my  breast  with  rapture  !  " 

"If  my  heart  has  made  this  confession,  you  need  not 
to  learn  it  again ;  spoken  language  is  less  expressive 
than  the  language  of  the  heart  and  eye." 

"  But  tell  me  if  I  have  read  this  language  aright  ?  " 

"  After  what  I  have  already  said  to  you,  Henri,  you 
must  be  your  own  judge." 

"  Helen,  can  I  be  satisfied  with  this  ?  " 

"  You  must." 

"  I  cannot,  will  not,  be  satisfied  !  But  perhaps  there 
is  a  prior  engagement?  You  love  Mr.  Gray  !  " 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that !  " 

I  was  now  growing  jealous,  and  my  thoughts  were 
very  bitter. 

"  You  love  him,  I  know  you  do  !  "  I  exclaimed,  in 
an  excited  lone.  "  You  love  one  who  is  not  your  equal ; 
and  you  will  marry  him,  and  end  our  friendship  for 
ever  !  " 

"This  from  you,  Henri?" 

"  Reject  a  heart,  if  you  will,  that  beats  only  for  you; 
and  then  be  happy,  if  you  can  !  Marry  Gray,  if  you  are 
so  disposed,  and  then  see  how  you  wiU  feel  when  you 
learn,  as  you  must,  that  he  is  far  beneath  you  !  Do  not 
think  to  retain  my  love,  friendship  or  respect,  then :  for 
you  shall  not  have  them  !  " 

I  paused,  and  gazed  upon  her  face  ;  it  was  like  marble 


TWICE   REJECTED.  303 

in  whiteness,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me  as  though 
astounded  by  the  words  I  had  uttered.  Their  strange 
expression  caused  me  to  reflect  upon  the  import  of  my 
language.  She  seemed  to  instinctively  recoil  from  me. 
I  was  just  ready  to  apologize,  when  she  arose  and  said : 

"Mr.  Eaton  ! "  —  she  had  never  called  me  Mr.  before  — 
"  I  would  not  have  believed  you  could  have  talked  thus 
to  me !  I  have  been  deceived  in  you  !  Know  you  that  I 
consider  you  unworthy  of  my  love  !  " 

Those  last  words  made  me  angry,  and  my  reply  only 
widened  the  breach. 

"  I  am  equal  to  Mr.  Gray,  I  think,  and  I  trust  I  am 
not  inferior  to  you.  I  am  not  surprised,  now,  that  it 
was  so  easy  a  matter  for  you  to  reject  me  !  " 

"  Say  no  more,  or  I  shall  lose  all  my  respect  for  you  ; 
and  I  would  not  cease  to  respect  one  to  whom  I  owe  so 
much.  May  your  better  moments  teach  you  the  cruel 
injustice  of  this  !  " 

The  tears  were  now  streaming  from  her  eyes  ;  and,  as 
she  was  about  to  leave  me,  I  sprang  and  caught  her 
hands,  and  begged  her  not  to  go. 

"Unhand  me!"  she  said,  resolutely;  "and  do  not 
touch  me  again- !  " 

"  But  hear  me,  Helen,  I  pray  you  !  " 
.  "  I  leave  you  to  your  own  reflections." 

As  she  went  up  the  stairs  which  led  to  her  chamber, 
I  heard  her  sob  bitterly.  Thus  left  alone,  I  seated  my- 


304  TWICE   REJECTED. 

self  upon  the  sofa  where  she  had  sat  hut  a  few  minutes 
before,  and,  burying  my  head  in  my  hands,  gave  loose 
rein  to  -my  own  dark  thoughts.  For  a  time  I  fancied 
that  Helen  was  unjust  and  cruel;  but  the  mist  soon 
melted  away  from  my  vision,  and  I  saw  how  foolish  I 
had  been.  I  was  fearful  that  I  had  sealed  my  fate,  and 
that  she  was  forever  lost  to  me.  What  a  mean  thing  she 
must  think  me !  I  had  conducted  myself  as  though  I 
had  a  right  to  claim  her  hand,  and  I  had  told  her  that 
I  was  convinced  she  loved  me;  but  that  was  not 
enough, —  I  must  add  insult,  and  cruelly  wound  one  of  the 
most  pure  and  sensitive  beings  in  the  world ! 

"  That  very  hour,  when  passion,  turned  to  wrath, 
Resembled  hatred  most, 
Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos  ;  —  in  that  hour 
The  tempters  found  me."  * 

I  could  hardly  find  it  in  my  heart  to  justify  Helen  for 
saying  that  she  did  not  consider  me  worthy  of  her  love ; 
but  I  felt  that,  had  I  been  wooing  Irene  Dinneford,  I 
should  have  shown  more  deference,  and  not  have  said 
"You  love  me, —  your  heart  responds  to  mine,"  &c. 
And  yet,  considering  all  the  circumstances,  my  demeanor 
towards  Helen  should  have  been  more  respectful  than 
towards  Irene.  But  my  transgression  did  not  end  here ; 

*  "  The  Lady  of  Lyons." 


TWICE   REJECTED.  305 

I  had  shown  my  littleness  by  getting  jealous  and  angry, 
and  so  had  foolishly  wounded  one  whom  I  knew  to  cher 
ish  the  deepest  gratitude  in  her  heart  toward  mflfcr  what 
I  had  done  for  her.  It  is  well  to  confer  favors,  but  low 
and  mean,  ay,  contemptible,  to  ever  show,  by  words 
or  actions,  in  your  intercourse  with  those  you  have  bene 
fited,  that  you  have  not  forgotten  your  good  deeds,  and 
look  for  something  in  return.  That  moment  the  benefac 
tion  is  cancelled ;  and  what  was  truly  a  blessing  becomes 
a  cankering  curse  ! 

What  frail  beings  we  are,  an<J  how  prone  to  err !  Pas 
sion  bends  us  before  the  might  of  its  power,  and  sways 
us  to  and  fro  as  the  heavy  winds  sway  the  trees  of  the 
forest.  Under  its  influence  we  say  and  do  a  thousand 
things,  which,  a  moment  after,  we  would  give  worlds  to 
recall !  The  longer  I  thought  of  our  conversation,  the 
more  I  condemned  myself;  and  I  only  found  relief  by  a 
good,  hearty,  unmanly  cry.  I  remained  in  one  position 
until  I  heard  my  uncle  and  aunt  drive  up  to  the  door, 
when  I  sought  my  bed  ;  but  not  to  sleep,  for  disappoint 
ment  and  remorse  frightened  slumber  from  my  pillow. 
I  tossed  and  tumbled  all  night  long,  and  was  glad  when 
I  saw  the  first  approach  of  day.  I  arose  while  it  was 
yet  dark,  and  went  out  to  ramble,  I  knew  not  and  cared 
not  whither,  if  I  could  only  get  away  from  my  own 
thoughts. 

Unconsciously  I  wandered  to  the  spot  I  have  before 
26* 


S06  TWICE   BEJECTED. 

described,  where  was  the  rock  in  the  valley  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  and  the  brook  and  trees  forming  circles  at  its 
base,  ^f  had  been  far  beyond  it,  and  came  up  on  the  side 
opposite  to  that  approached  when  going  directly  from  the 
house.  Judge  of  my  surprise  to  find  a  female  kneeling 
at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  her  head  laid  in  the  niche.  A 
nearer  view  convinced  me  that  it  was  Helen.  I  listened, 
and  found  that  she  was  weeping  bitterly.  What  should  I 
do  now  ?  Turn  and  fly,  or  go  to  her,  and  seek  to  dry  her 
tears  and  dispel  her  griefs  ?  I  could  not  leave  her  there 
alone ;  and,  with  a  palpitating  heart,  slowly  approached 
her.  I  stopped  within  a  few  feet  of  her,  for  I  could  go 
no  further.  Every  sob  which  fell  upon  my  ear  pierced 
my  heart  like  an  arrow.  As  I  looked  upon  her,  my 
bosom  heaved  a  deep  sigh ;  she  heard  it,  and  sprang  to 
v  her  feet,  and  hastily  brushed  away  the  tears. 

" Forgive  me,  Helen,"  I  said;  "  I  knew  not  that  you 
were  here." 

"  It  is  easily  forgiven,  then,"   she  answered. 

"  And  cannot  you  forgive  where  there  is  injury, 
Helen?" 

"  It  was  never  a  difficult  thing  for  me  to  forgive 
injuries." 

"  Then  pardon  me  for  the  unjustifiable  language  I 
made  use  of  to  you  last  night." 

"  I  do,  Henri,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  I  thank  you,  Helen  j  and  may  God  bless  you  as  you 


TWICE  REJECTED.  807 

deserve  !  Last  night  I  suffered  bitterly ;  reproaching 
myself  for  what  I  had  done,  and  fearing  that  I  had  "lost 
your  friendship  forever.  I  will  never  offend  again/Helen; 
and  I  beg  of  you  to  restore  me  to  the  same  place  in 
your  affections  which  I  once  enjoyed. " 

"  I  will  do  so ;  for  I  am  glad  to  find  that  in  your 
better  moments  you  are  what"  you  always  were.  You 
are  not  bad  nor  unfeeling,  but  hasty  and  passionate." 

"  Bless  you,  my  own,  dear  sister  !  I  thought  your 
heart  had  changed ;  but  I  find  that  it  possesses  the  gentle 
and  forgiving  spirit  of  your  childhood." 

"  And  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise,  Henri ;  for,  if 
ever  I  allow  myself  to  harbor  revengeful  feelings,  then  I 
am  most  unhappy." 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  forgive  as  readily  as  you  can !  " 

"  If  you  try,  you  can." 

"It  is  very  hard  to  forgive,  sometimes." 

"  Very  true.  But  the  reason  why  we  cannot  is 
because  we  do  not  wish  it.  Your  words  cut  me  to  the 
heart,  last  night,  and  powered  you  very  much  in  my 
opinion;  and,  had  I  not  wished  for  a  reconciliation,  I 
should  not  so  readily  have  forgiven  you." 

"  I  was  angry  and  jealous,  Helen,  or  I  should  not 
have  spoken  as  I  did.  But  there  is  time  for  atonement. 
Make  my  case  your  own,  and  then  judge  what  my  feel 
ings  must  have  been.  I  thought  you  cruel  to  reject  me, 
and  I  was  fearful  that  you  had  given  your  heart  to 


308  TWICE   REJECTED. 

another.  There  was  a  mingling  in  my  feelings  of  dis 
appointed  love,  jealousy,  bitterness  and  despair." 

"  Rest  assured  that  I  will  judge  you  in  the  most  favor 
able  light.  Bu^  Henri,  as  we  are  now  friends  again, 
permit  me  to  tell  you  that,  if  you  would  live  peaceably 
and  happily,  you  must  learn  to  control  your  feelings  and 
passions.  When  you  are  married,  unless  you  conquer 
this  habit,  you  may,  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  heap 
unjustifiable  reproaches  upon  your  wife;  and,  should  she 
possess  a  delicate,  sensitive  mind,  how  her  heart  would 
be  made  to  bleed  ! " 

"  I  will  heed  your  admonitions,  fair  instructress  ;  and 
henceforth,  when  the  evil  spirit  is  seeking  to  bend  me  to 
his  purpose,  I  will  think  of  you ;  and  there  shall  be  a 
magic  in  the  thought,  which  shall  disarm  the  demon,  and 
send  him  powerless  away." 

"Look  to  Heaven;  for  God  is  mighty,  and  mortals 
are  weak." 

"  But  God  makes  use  of  erring  mortals  to  accomplish 
a  good  work,  even  His  work  ;  ^nd  you  shall  be  the  good 
angel,  to  charm  away  all  evil." 

"  I  am  weak,  as  well  as  you  ;  but  I  will  aid  you  all  I 
can,  and  that  will  be  but  little.  You  must  rely  upon 
yourself,  and  trust  in  God." 

"  And  yet,  I  would  have  your  aid  and  sympathy, 
because  I  have  so  much  confidence  in  you.  I  have  felt, 
for  some  years,  that  I  was  not  fitted  to  stand  alone.  I 


.       TWICE   REJECTED.  309 

know  my  own  nature  so  well  that  I  fear  cruel  disappoint 
ment." 

"  The  true  soul  will  be  brave  in  all  trials.  You  can 
not  overcome  the  faithful." 

"  But  very  few,  comparatively,  Helen,  can  stand  firm, 
when  the  pitiless  storm  of  misfortune  is  beating  upon 
theft,  unless  there  is  some  near  and  dear  one  to  sustain 
them.  You  may  talk  to  the  old  man  of  the  necessity  of 
looking  to  God  for  support,  when  his  limbs  have  become 
weak,  and  he  is  tottering  to  his  grave ;  and,  though  he 
trusts  never  so  much,  fre  will  need  a  human  arm  to  lean 
upon,  or  a  stout  cane  which  the  good  God  has  caused  to 
grow  for  his  use  and  support,  when  he  has  no  longer 
strength  sufficient  to  sustain  his  decaying  body." 

"  Well,  Henri,  I  believe  you  are  right;  and  I  doubt 
not  that,  when  you  need  more  strength  than  you  now 
have,  you  will  find  the  being  who  is  capable  of  imparting 
it  to  you.  As  for  us,  let  us  be  like  a  good  brother  and 
sister,  and  then  we  can  stfcngthen  each  other." 

11 1  appreciate  your  friendship,  Helen,  and  your  sis 
terly  love ;  and  I  assure  you  that  I  value  'them  highly. 
But  I  can  imagine  that  the  time  may  come  when  they 
would  be  of  nothing  worth  to  me.  There  have  been 
brothers  who  have  felt  very  sad  to  see  favorite  sisters 
wholly  devoted  to  others  —  to  see  them  married.  And 
how  should  I  feel  to  see  you  a  wife  ?  But  is  not  the 


310  TWICE   REJECTED. 

relation  of  brother  and  sister  too  cold  for  us  ?  And  is 
not  friendship,  view  it  as  you  will,  tame  and  insipid  ?  " 

"  0,  no,  Henri !  do  not  say  that !  —  it  is  a  holy  rela 
tion  !  " 

"  I  know  it,  but —  " 

"  Nay,  I  would  not  have  you  undervalue  friendship, 
or  sisterly  regard.  But  it  is  time  I  had  returned. 
Come,  let  us  go;  it  is  not  well  to  tarry  longer." 

I  mechanically  obeyed,  somewhat  puzzled  to  under 
stand  Helen.  More  than  once  she  had  manifested  for 
me,  by  her  looks,  a  regard,  I  thought,  stronger  than 
friendship;  and  but  just  now  the  beautiful  expression 
had  flitted  a  moment  upon  her  face.  If  she  cherished 
no  other  feeling  but  friendship,  why  was  this  ?  Surely 
she  cannot  be  a  coquette.  My  thoughts  were  broken  in 
upon  by  Helen's  remarking  that  the  weather  was  delight 
ful. 

"  Very  beautiful,"  I  replied.  "But  the  most  beautiful 
things  in  nature  sometimes  jar  €£>on  our  feelings." 

"  I  pray  you  cease  to  indulge  in  such  thoughts. 
Come,  you  will  mar  all  our  happiness.  Let  us  be  as 
we  once  were." 

'•  I  fear  we  never  shall  be." 

"  Be  not  faithless,  but  believing." 

"  0,  Helen  !  " 

"Look   at   the   petals  of  this   pretty  flower,  Henri. 


TWICE   REJECTED.  311 

How  soft  they  are,  and  what  bright  tints  !     Are  they 
not  beautiful?     Come, —  you  don't  look  at  them." 

"  They  are  very  pretty,"  I  replied. 

"  Is  that  all?  You  ought  to  talk  with  your  uncle 
about  flowers.  He  would  not  call  you  silly,  as  he  does 
me." 

"  Does  he  call  you  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  does.  We  go  out  for  a  walk,  and  I  find  a 
beautiful  flower,  and  carry  it  to  him,  and  tell  him  all 
about  it,  showing  him  all  the  tinted  and  downy  leaves, 
and  then  he  will  say,  '  Well,  if  you  are  not  a  silly  girl, 
to  make  such  a  fuss  about  so  insignificant  a  thing  as 
that !  One  would  suppose  you  had  found  a  great  hunk 
of  gold  ! ' 

"  And  then  I  tell  him  that  gold  is  not  half  so 
beautiful  as  my  flower ;  and  he  will  laugli  at  me,  and 
say  that  '  where  ignorance  is  bliss,  't  is  folly  to  be  wise,' 
or  some  such  provoking  thing." 

"  Uncle  likes  to  have  his  joke." 

•"  I  know  he  does,   bless  him !      But  he  don't  like 
flowers  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  There  are  very  few  who  do." 

"  That  is  strange.  Why,  I  loved  them  when  I  was 
a  little  ragged  fright,  and  gathered  dandelions  for  Deacon 
Webber.  I  one  day  saved  all  the  yellow  flowers,  and 
tied  a  spire  of  grass  around  them;  but  when  I  went 


312  TWICE   REJECTED. 

home,  the  deacon  threw  them  in  my  face,  and  boxed  my 
ears  soundly  for  so  wasting  my  time." 

"  The  brute  !  " 

"  There,  that  evil  being  is  getting  possession  of  you 
again  !  I  see  that  you  will  have  to  watch  and  pray,  lest 
you  enter  into  temptation." 

"  With  you  by  my  side,  there  would  be  but  little 
danger  of  temptation." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?     Remember  last  night." 

We  had  now  arrived  home,  and  our  conversation 
ended, —  I  more  in  love  than  ever.  The  reader  may 
think  it  strange  that  I  should  still  remain,  after  such  a 
decided  refusal.  Under  different  circumstances,  I  should 
most  likely  have  returned  home  at  once.  But  I  had 
lived  years  with  Helen,  and  had  engaged  to  marry 
another  in  a  brief  period  after  I  left  my  uncle's.  My 
aunt  had  told  me,  confidentially,  that  Helen  appeared 
greatly  distressed  when  she  learned  of  my  engagement ; 
and  she  doubted  not  that  her  subsequent  ill-health  and 
low  spirits  were  mainly  caused  by  it ;  besides,  I  ss?w 
many  things  which  convinced  me  that  I  was  not  wholly 
indifferent  to  her.  I  fancied  that  her  affections  had 
received  a  severe  shock,  from  which  they  might  in  time 
recover.  I  believed  that,  if  I  had  offered  myself  prior  to 
going  to  New  York,  she  would  at  once  have  accepted 
me.  Had  I  been  true  to  her,  one  refusal  would  so  have 
wounded  my  pride,  that  it  is  doubtful  whether  I  should 


TWICE   REJECTED.  313 

have  ever  broached  the  subject  again.  I  knew  that, 
without  her,  life  would  be  robbed  of  all  its  beauty ;  with 
her,  I  should  be  happy.  I  -alone  must  win  the  priceless 
jewel,  and  wear  it  next  my  heart. 

Another  week  passed  away,  and  though  we  were  much 
of  the  time  together,  I  did  not  approach  the  subject 
which  interested  me  most  of  all.  Not  that  I  had  less 
inclination,  but  I  was  fearful  of  jeopardizing  privileges 
which  I  now  enjoyed.  Helen  had  seemed  to  forget  the 
past,  and  unreservedly  gave  me  her  affection  and  esteem. 
Like  happy  children,  we  rambled  and  chatted  gayly 
together.  We  read  from  the  same  book,  sitting  under 
shady  trees,  or  at  home  in  the  parlor,  where  we  spent 
the  most  of  our  time,  rarely  interrupted ;  for  the  old 
folks,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  began  to  consider  us  lovers, 
and  thought  that,  like  lovers,  we  should  be  happiest  when 
left  to  ourselves.  The  arrangement  suited  me,  and  I 
hoped  it  did  Helen.  Mr.  Gray  was  no  longer  in  town 
to  trouble  me.  I  was  present  when  he  bade  them  all 
good-by,  saying  he  should  not  return  until  another 
spring.  I  saw  him  depart  with  infinite  satisfaction.  I 
never  believed  for  a  moment  that  Helen  would  marry 
him ;  and  yet,  with  the  consistency  of  a  jealous  lover,  I 
was  all  the  time  fretting  myself  lest  she  should. 

We  were  in  the  parlor,  one  evening,  just  at  dusk.  The 
day  had  been  .exceedingly  hot,  and  the  air  oppressive; 
for  the  earth  was  parched  with  heat.  In  the  afternoon, 
27 


314  TWICE   REJECTED. 

a  cloud  had  arisen  in  the  west,  darkened  all  the  heavens, 
and,  amid  heavy  winds,  loud  thunder,  and  fierce  light 
ning,  had  poured  down  the  water  in  torrents,  washing  the 
dust  from  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  pattering  all  over  the 
fields,  which  held  up  their  dusty  faces  to  catch  the  jew 
elled  drops,  which  made  them  look  clean  and  bright 
again. 

When  the  shower  had  passed  over,  the  air  was  clear 
and  bracing,  the  birds  sang  gayly,  and  everything  seemed 
quickened  with  renewed  life.  The  leaves  on  the  trees, 
the  spires  of  grass  in  the  fields,  vines  and  shrubbery, 
glittered,  as  the  setting  sun  shone  upon  them,  like  robes 
studded  with  pearls,  and  sparkled  as  though  hung  with 
millions  of  jewels. 

On  such  an  evening  we  sat  alone.  We  had  noted  the 
happy  change  which  nature  had  so  speedily  undergone, 
like  a  weary  traveller,  throwing  off  dusty,  soiled  robes, 
and  putting  on  clean  and  befitting  apparel.  We  watched 
the  sun  as  it  went  down  in  the  clear,  blue  sky,  throwing 
a  golden  light  over  hill  and  valley,  and  brightening  all 
the  scene  with  its  mellow  rays.  Spell-bound,  we  gazed 
at  the  myriads  of  starry  eyes  that  looked  out  from  every 
tree  and  bower,  and  smiled  and  glistened  on  the  face  of 
every  green  field,  hill  and  dale.  The  king  of  day  was 
no  longer  in  view  ;  the  yellow  lustre,  which  lingered  for 
a  time,  faded  gradually  away,  and  the  shadows  began  to 
gather  around.  They  stole  noiselessly  into  the  room 


TWICE   REJECTED.  315 

where  we  sat,  darkening  the  corners,  creeping  slyly 
under  the  sofas,  tables,  and  chairs.  Anon  they  were 
taking  their  places  under  the  trees,  by  the  sides  of  fences 
and  buildings,  gathering  in  vast  numbers  in  yonder 
woods,  and  in  due  time  pouring  out  and  besieging,  and 
darkening  all  the  world.  Then  Venus,  that  most  beau 
tiful  of  the  starry  hosts,  which  millions  say  "  is  mine," 
with  her  sparkling  fingers  removed  the  slight  blue  veil 
which  covered  her  face,  and  looked  down  upon  the  earth 
brightly,  smilingly,  as  beautiful  as  when  she  first  took 
her  place  in  the  soft  blue  sky. 

"  There  is  my  star  !  "  said  Helen. 

"  What  if  I  should  claim  it  as  mine  ?  " 

"  We  shall  not  quarrel,  if  you  do ;  for  it  is  like  God's 
love, —  all  can  have  it." 

"  How  long  we  have  sat  without  speaking !  " 

"  With  no  loss  of  enjoyment,  I  hope?  " 

"  No." 

"  Could  we  have  been  as  happy,  do  you  think,  had  we 
con  versed  7" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  There  are  moments,  Henri,  when  spoken  words  would 
diminish,  and  not  add  to,  our  felicity." 
.  "  Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Ay,  truly.  When  the  soul  drinks  in  large  draughts 
of  the  harmony,  beauty,  light  and  glory  of  the  gods, — 
when  it  feasts  on  life's  holiest,  most  nutritious  aliment, — 


316  TWICE   KEJECTED. 

what  power  have  poor  spoken  words  to  add  to  the  sum 
of  our  spiritual  felicity  ?  Methinks  that  at  such  a  time 
they  are  but  harsh  discords  ! " 

"  You  are  growing  eloquent,  Helen  !  " 

"  It  is  but  the  eloquence  of  truth." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it;  but  the  number  who  ever  taste 
of  such  pure  delights  is  comparatively  small." 

"I  fear  that  what  you  say  is  true;  but  why  is  it, 
when  there  are  so  many  things  in  the  world  to  beautify 
and  enrapture  the  soul? " 

"  It  is  because  the  mind  is  not  sufficiently  expanded 
and  elevated ;  the  affections  and  thoughts  are  animal,  and 
not  spiritual.  The  low  and  depraved  find  enjoyment  in 
the  company  of  the  vile  and  repulsive  ;  they  are  merry, 
and  at  home,  where  the  elevated  soul  would  suffer  the 
most  cruel  agony.  The  reason  of  this  is  obvious;  the 
mind,  the  heart,  the  affections,  are  in  harmony  with  the 
vice,  filth  and  dark  depravity,  by  which  they  are  sur 
rounded." 

"  0,  when  will  man  rise  above  these  things,  and  be 
pure  and  spiritual? " 

"  When  truth  shajl  be  brought  to  bear  directly  upon 
his  heart ;  when  a  more  perfect  social  state  shall  take  the 
place  of  the  discordant,  unequal,  antagonistic,  selfish 
one,  which  now  exists." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  more  perfect  social  state  ?  " 

"  Did  you  never  think  of  the  false  and  selfish  relations 


TWICE  REJECTED.  817 

which  now  exist  in  society  ?  —  the  continual  clashing  of 
interests,  ever  stirring  up  enmities  betwixt  man  and  man, 
setting  brother  against  brother  and  friend  against  friend ; 
beginning  with  individuals,  and  extending  from  them 
to  neighborhoods,  from  neighborhoods  to  towns,  from 
towns  to  counties-,  from  counties  to  states,  from  states  to 
nations  ?  It  is  like  the  pebble  thrown  into  the  water, 
forming  circle  after  circle,  wider  and  wider,  until  they 
reach  the  surrounding  shore." 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  these  things  ;  but  where  is 
the  remedy?  " 

"  In  a  more  perfect  social  state.  It  is  vain  to  look  for 
harmony,  peace  and  brotherly  love,  while  these  false  and 
conflicting  relations  exist.  Now,  every  man  seeketh  his 
own  and  not  his  brother's  welfare.  The  few  live  in 
idleness  and  luxury,  the  many  in  weary  toil  and  pov 
erty;  and  this  state  of  things  waxes  worse,  causing 
crime,  disease,  and  suffering." 

"  And  can  there  be  a  state  which  will  equalize  labor, 
banish  poverty  and  crime,  and  cause  men  to  live  in 
peace?" 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  the  people  should  associate  to 
gether,  so  that  their  hours  of  labor  may  be  diminished, 
and  their  interests  no  longer  clash.  All  should  do  some 
thing,  and  do  that  kind  of  labor  for  which  they  are  best 
adapted.  Labor  should  be  made  attractive,  and  then 
there  would  be  no  drones.  Men  are  not  naturally  averse 
27* 


318  TWICE  KEJECTED. 

to  labor ;  but  it  is  the  circumstances  by  which  they  are 
surrounded,  or  the  unsuitable  kind  of  labor,  or  over- work, 
which  makes  them  averse  to  it." 

"  Your  views  are  new  to  me.  If  there  could  be  a  state 
of  society  in  which  every  one  could  be  of  service  to  his 
brother,  while  serving  himself,  it  would  be  glorious. 
Society,  then,  would  be  truly  divine." 

"  A  divine  order  of  society  is  the  true  order  of  so 
ciety.  How  harmonious  are  all  the  laws  of  nature  !  The 
myriads  of  planets  and  suns  which  move  through  the  in 
finity  of  space  are  so  governed  by  attraction  and  repul 
sion,  that  there  is  never  a  discord, —  no  clashing,  but 
perfect  harmony.  The  very  stars  roll  to  music  !  Na 
ture,  in  all  her  varied  aspects,  is  still  harmonious  !  Poets 
tell  us  of  her  unwritten  music  ;  and  the  thought  is  beau 
tiful  and  inspiring,  that  throughout  the  great  anthem  of 
the  universe  there  is  no  discord,  but  delightful  harmony 
running  through  the  whole, —  sometimes  soft,  pathetic, 
low,  beautiful,  and  enrapturing, —  sometimes  mournful, 
sad,  plaintive,  or  loud,  wild,  and  passionate.  The  crash 
of  thunders,  roar  of  winds  and  tempests,  are  as  free  from 
discord  as  sighs  of  zephyrs,  humming  of  insects,  rustle 
of  leaves,  murmuring  of  brooks,  and  singing  of  birds." 

"You,  too,  are  growing  eloquent." 

"  1  ought  to,  upon  so  glorious  a  subject  as  this.  I 
have  faith  to  believe  that  man  has  not  yet  reached  his 
true  destiny ;  he  will  learn,  by  and  by,  that  any  wrong 


TWICE  KEJECTED.  319 

done  to  one  of  his  fellow-beings  affects  not  only  the  one 
who  is  wronged,  but  the  one  "who  is  guilty  of  the  wrong ; 
and  it  does  not  stop  there,  but  extends  abroad,  touching, 
with  its  wizard  fingers,  the  fortunes  of  thousands,  and 
blighting  wherever  it  touches ;  —  the  fairest  flowers  of 
life,  peace,  joy,  happiness,  wither  in  its  presence,  while 
the  most  noxious  weeds,  hatred,  envy,  jealousy,  grow 
and  flourish  greatly." 

11  It  is  truly  so,  I  doubt  not ;  but  man  does  not  under 
stand  it  as  yet.  Every  one  is  seeking  for  earthly  treas 
ures  ;  and  with  many  it  is  a  virtue,  rather  than  advice,  to 
be  able  to  get  the  best  end  of  the  bargain." 

"Honesty  is  said  to  be  the  best  policy;  but  very  few 
really  believe  the  proverb  to  be  true. —  hence  they  use  any 
safe  means  to  get  rich.  The  motto  is,  { Put  money  in 
your  purse ; '  —  honestly,  if  you  can ;  if  not,  dishonestly." 

"  And  every  dishonest  act,  you  think,  brings  with  it  a 
train  of  evils?" 

"  It  must  be  so.  No  one  can  do  wrong  without  feeling 
the  effect  in  his  own  life,  or  without  its  having  an  effect 
upon  his  own  life  ;  and  the  evil,  and  the  effect  of  it,  may 
run  through  the  world." 

"  But  do  not  good  deeds  also  affect  the  world,  and  live 
on  forever?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  heaven  !  and  they  are  more  potent  than 
deeds  of  evil ;  and  this  should  encourage  us  to  persevere, 
knowing  that  the  right  and  the  true  shall  ultimately 


820  TWICE   REJECTED. 

triumph.  '  The  good  shall  live  forever,  but  the  evil  shall 
die.' " 

"  I  thank  you  for  what  you  have  said,  for  it  is  food 
for  thought  and  reflection.  I  am  always  grateful  for  a 
new  thought,  because  new  thoughts  expand  the  mind  and 
soul." 

During  our  conversation,  I  had  unconsciously  wound 
my  arm  around  Helen's  waist,  and  clasped  both  of  her 
hands  in  mine.  I  saw  that  my  words  had  favorably  im 
pressed  her,  and  that  she  was  regarding  me  with  that 
beautiful  expression  which  glowed  on  no  countenance  but 
hers.  " Now  is  my  time,"  thought  I;  "  one  more  trial, 
and,  if  she  rejects  me,  it  shall  be  the  last.  It  is  the  time, 
the  hour  for  bve,  and  I  must  succeed  !  " 

We  sat  some  time  in  silence,  she  seeming  as  well 
pleased  with  her  position  as  I  with  mine.  At  length  I 
addressed  her  thus  : 

"  Helen,  I  have  been  very  happy  with  you  to-night; 
so  happy,  that  the  bliss  of  years  seems  concentrated  into 
moments.  There  is  but  one  thing  wanting  to  make  my 
bliss  complete." 

"0,  Henri,  don't!  We  are  happy  now, —  let  that 
suffice." 

"  It  cannot  suffice  !  Promise  to  be  mine,  and  it  is  all 
I  ask  !  " 

"It  is  not  right  for  you  to  speak  of  this  again  so 
goon  !  Do  not  say  any  more,  I  pray  you  !  " 


TWICE  REJECTED.  321 

While  saying  this,  she  withdrew  her  hands  from  mine, 
and  removed  my  arm  from  her  waist. 

"  I  cannot  think  it  wrong,  Helen  !     You  wrong  me, 
and  wrong  yourself,  by  repelling  me  from  you  !  " 

I  now  arose,  and  walked  the  floor,  greatly  excited. 

"Becalm,  Henri!" 

"  No,  no  !  I  cannot,  will  not  be  <!alm  !  Say  that  you 
are  mine,  now,  this  moment !  — for  I  cannot  wait  longer  !  " 

I  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  caught  her  in  my 
arms,  and  folded  her  vehemently  to  my  breast. 

"  Henri,"  she  said,  "  let  me  go  !  " 

"No,  I  will  not  until  you  promise  to  become  my 
wife !  " 

"  I  command  you  !  " 

"  And  will  you  not  be  mine,  Helen  ?  " 

"No,  I  cannot." 

I  now  released  her,  and  said,  "Helen,  this  is  the 
last  time  I  shall  trouble  you.  Accept  now,  for  I  never 
will  ask  you  again  !  " 

She  remained  silent. 

"I  give  you  till  to-morrow  to  consider  of  it;  reflect 
well,  and  then  decide.  Think  of  the  depth  of  my  afiec- 
tions,  and  that  they  are  all  yours  !  If  then  you  reject 
me,  I  take  my  immediate  departure." 

"  You  have  my  answer  now;  I  cannot  change  it." 

"  My  determination  is  fixed,  then ;  I  depart  early  in 
the  morning." 


322  TWICE  KEJECTED. 

"I  would  not  have  you  go  !  " 

"  But  go  I  shall ;  so  take  your  choice,  either  to  be 
mine,  or  be  separated  from  me." 

"  You  will  sometimes  write  me  ?  " 

"  No !  " 

"  But  you  will  come  and  see  us  again  soon?  " 

11  Not  for  a  year."* 

"A  year!" 

"  Yes,  and  longer,  perhaps." 

"  You  will  not  forget  your  friend  Helen  ?  " 

"  I  will  try  to  forget  her." 

11  And  I  will  remember  you  ;  and,  if  ever  I  pray  in  sin 
cerity  and  truth,  it  shall  be  for  your  welfare  and  happi 
ness." 

"  0,  Helen  !  " 

11  We  may  meet  again,  Henri,  when  the  skies  shall  be 
brighter,  and  the  landscapes  more  beautiful." 

"  I  dare  not  hope  it  now,  Helen.  The  future  looks 
all  dark." 

"It  will  brighten  again." 

"  Never ! " 

"  Look  not  on  the  dark  side  of  life  ;  —  the  light  is  more 
hopeful  and  beautiful." 

"  It  is  all  dark  for  me." 

"  Peace  and  light  shall  come  again." 

She  took  my  hand,-  and  said,    "  God  bless  you  ! " 


TWICE  REJECTED.  823 

looked  kindly,  but  sadly  into  my  face,  whispered  "  Good 
night,  "  and  hastened  to  her  room. 

After  passing  a  sleepless  night,  I  arose  and  prepared 
for  my  departure,  half  hoping  that  Helen  might  relent. 
My  uncle  and  aunt  were  surprised  at  my  sudden  resolu 
tion  to  leave  them  ;  but,  as  I  told  them  it  was  necessary 
for  me  to  go,  they  said  no  more  about  it.  Helen  still 
looked  sad,  but  showed  no  signs  of  relenting ;  and  I  was 
obliged  to  bid  her  good-by  with  no  hope  of  ever  having 
the  right  to  call  her  my  own.  When  I  was  about  to 
start,  she  offered  me  her  hand,  which  I  grasped  with 
fervor,  scarcely  able  to  restrain  myself  from  again 
folding  her  to  my  heart. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

1  FOUND  everything  going  on  harmoniously  at  home, 
for  peace  and  happiness  had  returned  to  a  long-deserted 
roof.  Mrs.  Stewart  was  the  good  angel  who  watched  over 
the  interests  of  all.  She  had  found  the  children  in  a 
worse  state  than  she  left  them.  They  were  more  fretful 
and  ungovernable ;  but  the  vicious  influences,  which  had 
so  long  surrounded  them,  were  removed ;  and,  for  her, 
it  was  not  a  very  hard  thing  to  eradicate  much  of  the  evil, 
which  had  been  growing  and  taking  deeper  root  for  so 
many  years.  They  would  frequently  let  their  passions, 
for  some  trivial  cause,  run  away  with  their  judgments; 
but  she  was  ever  ready,  with  her  word  of  peace  and  look 
of  love  and  forbearance,  to  soothe  and  calm  the  troubled 
sea  of  passion. 

There  is  a  power  in  goodness  which  the  most  aban 
doned  imy  be  made  to  feel.  It  can  tame  the  most  fierce, 
and  cause  the  madman  to  become  as  gentle  as  a  little 
child.  The  raging  passions  are  calmed  and  stilled  in  its 
presence,  even  as  Jesus  calmed  the  stormy  sea,  when  he 
said,  "  Peace,  peace,  be  still."  The  reason  why  evil 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS.  ,     325 

gains  so  many  victories  is,  because  there  is  so  much  pro 
fessed  and  so  little  real  every-day-life  goodness  in  the 
world. 

The  influence  of  Mrs.  Stewart  was  just  what  was 
wanted  to  counteract  the  evils  which  had  so  long  mingled 
with  the  very  air  which  my  brothers  and  sisters  inhaled. 
There  is  nothing  more  fatal  to  a  family  of  children  than 
to  live  with  those  who  are  abusive,  overbearing,  wicked, 
self-righteous,  fault-finding  and  quarrelsome.  It  makes 
them  like  those  with  whom  they  reside.  Many  children 
are  passionate,  overbearing  and  quarrelsome,  because 
their  parents  are  so.  They  inherit  bad  dispositions  from 
them,  and  example  and  practice  make  them  worse.  And 
yet  such  parents  wonder  why  their  children  should  be  so 
hasty  and  passionate ! 

While  on  my  visit  at  uncle's,  I  had  scarcely  lifted  my 
hand  to  do  any  kind  of  work ;  but  now  I  thought  the  best 
thing  that  I  could  do  was  to  aid  my  brothers  in  their  work 
on  the  farm.  I  was  suffering  from  low  spirits  and  ill  health, 
caused  by  my  recent  disappointment.  I  thought  labor 
in  the  open  air  would  be  most  conducive  "to  health,  and 
exert  a  greater  healing  power  than  medicines.  A  farm 
is  the  best  place  for  invalids,  especially  those  of  cities  and 
large  villages ;  for  they  need  the  pure  country  air,  and 
that  kind  of  labor  which  will  call  all  the  powers  of  the 
physical  system  into  action.  Most  of  the  drugs  prescribed 
for  the  sick  poison  and  corrupt  the  blood,  while  labor 
28 


326  ,    NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

upon  a  farm,  regular  hours,  good  air  and  wholesome  food, 
remove  disease  and  restore  health. 

It  took  us,  with  our  hired  help,  till  the  twentieth  of 
August  to  finish  haying.  The  exercise  was  beneficial  to 
me ;  but  it  is  vain  to  expect  bodily  health  when  the  mind 
is  diseased. 

I  have  not  spoken,  for  some  time,  of  Deacon  Webber. 
The  week  previous  to  my  arrival  home  he  met  with  a  sad 
mishap.  He  was  detected  in  purloining  a  part  of  the 
money  collected  at  the  last  communion  season.  This  led 
to  an  investigation,  which  made  it  very  evident  that  he 
had  done  so  for  years.  A  church-meeting  was  imme 
diately  called,  when  all  the  facts  were  laid  before  it,  and 
he  was  unanimously  expelled.  It  was  not  long  before 
everybody  found  out  that  he  was  always  a  bad  man.  The 
members  of  the  church  said  they  never  had  any  con 
fidence  in  him.  The  crime  of  stealing  money  collected 
for  church  purposes  was  looked  upon  by  his  brethren  as 
almost  equal  to  the  unpardonable  sin;  and  some  were 
certain  that  it  was  the  very  sin  itself,  especially  when  the 
deed  was  done  by  a  deacon. 

When  Helen  Means  lived  with  him,  pale,  ragged  and 
dirty,  the  number  was  not  very  large  in  the  church  who 
thought  the  deacon  was  guilty  of  sin  in  thus  treating 
her  like  a  brute.  But  there  were  some  who  regarded  the 
matter  as  Christians  should ;  but  they  were  powerless  in 
numbers  and  influence.  Many  others  would  have  con- 


NEW  LEBANON.-— THE  SHAKERS.  32f 

demned  him,  if  they  had  known  all  the  facts.  Those 
who  were  now  loudest  in  their  condemnation  then  vented 
their  maledictions  upon  my  head,  because  I  had  aided  the 
poor  girl  to  escape  from  one  who  shamefully  abused  her. 
When  will  people  learn  that  the  beings  upon  whom  God 
has  stamped  his  image,  without  regard  to  nation,  clime  or 
color,  are  holier  and  more  sacred  than  rites,  ceremonies, 
holy  days  and  sacred  places  ?  Better  steal  from  an  hun 
dred  churches  than  wrong  one  little,  helpless  child. 

On  the  first  of  September,  my  sister  Jane  was  married 
to  Herbert  Mansfield,  a  young  farmer,  who  lived  in  a 
neighboring  town.  At  her  wedding  I  again  saw  Helen 
Means.  She  was  cordial  as  a  sister, —  nothing  more.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  Jane's  feelings,  and  Mrs.  Stewart's,  I 
should  not  have  been  present.  I  treated  her  with  more  of 
coldness  than  I  ever  manifested  towards  any  being  before 
in  whom  I  had  the  least  interest.  My  conduct  was  noticed, 
and  Mrs.  Stewart  seemed  hurt.  Helen  returned  with  my 
uncle  and  aunt,  the  next  day  after  Jane's  marriage.  In 
spite  of  my  coldness,  she  urged  me  to  come  and  pay  them 
another  visit  soon.  I  bade  her  remember  what  I  said 
the  evening  of  our  last  interview. 

"  Then,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  come  and  see  you." 

"  Possibly  you  may,"  I  replied. 

I  was  not  present  when  she  left  for  home,  and  this  I 
did  not  regret ;  for  it  might  have  been  a  hard  task  to  have 
preserved  my  stoical  coolness,  and  manifested  no  emotion. 


328  NEW  LEBANON.— *THE  SHAKERS. 

It  may  be  asked,  where  were  Helen's  parents,  during 
this  time  ?  They  were  written  to  repeatedly,  without  any 
answer  being  returned.  Then  direct  search  was  made 
for  them,  but  no  such  family  could  be  found. 

I  now  resolved  to  visit  New  York,  and  from  there  go 
wherever  my  inclinations  might  lead  me.  The  visit  of 
Helen  had  only  made  me  more  restless  and  uneasy, — 
I  wanted  excitement.  I  encountered  much  opposition 
in  my  plan,  especially  from  Mrs.  Stewart;  but  go  I 
must.  I  went  to  Boston;  from  there  to  Providence, 
and  by  steamboat  to  New  York  city.  I  found  my 
friends  well,  happy  and  prosperous.  Ernest  and  Irene 
were  to  be  married  the  first  week  in  November,  and  I 
was  expected  to  be  present.  They  both  seemed  highly 
delighted  to  see  me,  but  I  was  ill  at  ease  in  their  com 
pany  ;  for  their  mutual  happiness  made  me  think  still 
more  of  my  own  disappointment. 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  an  introduction  to  Ernest's 
mother,  who  was  in  New  York,  on  a  visit.  I  found  her 
an  intelligent,  agreeable  lady,  who  looked  as  though  her 
experience  had  been  bitter  and  painful. 

After  spending  a  week  in  New  York,  I  took  a  sail  up 
the  Hudson,  and  landed  at  Albany.  In  this  beautiful 
city  I  tarried  a  number  of  days.  At  my  hotel  I  became 
acquainted  with  a  gentleman  and  wife  and  two  daughters, 
who  had  been  to  Saratoga  Springs  and  Niagara  Falls. 
The  weather  was  so  warm  and  pleasant  that  they  had 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE   SHAKERS.  329 

determined  to  visit  New  Lebanon  Springs,  and  remain 
there  as  long  as  the  pleasant  weather  lasted.  I  gladly 
accepted  an  invitation  to  accompany  them,  for  I  found 
them  intelligent  and  agreeable.  We  engaged  a  private 
carriage  to  carry  us  to  Lebanon,  which  landed  us,  in  a 
few  hours,  at  the  Columbia  House. 

In  this  charming  spot  we  remained  a  number  of  weeks ; 
for  the  weather  continued  beautiful  until  the  first  of 
November.  New  Lebanon  has  many  attractions,  and  for 
real  beauty  and  variety  of  scenery  it  is  seldom  surpassed. 
There  was  but  one  thing  lacking,  to  make  it  perfect  to  my 
eye,  A  sheet  of  water,  quietly  reposing  in  the  valley,  would 
give  it  the  finishing  stroke.  It  might  then  be  too  beauti 
ful.  Early  in  the  morning,  it  required  but  little  imagin 
ation  to  supply  this  deficiency.  Looking  down  from 
either  of  the  many  eminences  which  overlook  the  valley, 
you  behold  a  white  vapor,  resting  there  so  calmly  that  it 
seems  like  a  lake.  I  have  often  climbed  those  hills  at 
early  dawn,  and  feasted  my  eyes  and  soul  upon  the 
beauty  and  grandeur '  which  were  all  around  me.  The 
white  lake,  at  the  foot  of  an  hundred  hills  and  mountains, 
would  soon  depart,  when  old  Sol  came  up  from  behind 
them,  and  looked  down  upon  it  with  his  eyes  of  fire.  Up 
the  mountain  sides  the  silvery  mist  would  creep,  laying 
hold  of  the  shrubs  and  trees  with  its  spirit-hands,  pulling 
itself  upward  until  it  gained  the  highest  summit ;  and 
then,  catching  a  ray  of  the  sun,  it  changed  to  a  rosy  hue, 
28* 


330       NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

and  flew  away  to  heaven.  As  I  gazed  upon  the  beauti 
ful  sight,  -I  thought  of  the  spirits  of  men,  lifted  by  the 
rays  of  the  "  Sun  of  righteousness  "  up  to  their  God. 

Sometimes,  in  my  rambles,  I  would  take  the  road 
leading  to  Pittsfield.  In  a  few  minutes  I  would  attain  a 
sufficient  elevation  to  tempt  me  to  tarry,  and  take  a  view 
of  the  scene.  With  rapture  I  would  gaze  upon  the  fields 
running  away  up  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  dotted 
over  with  trees,  burdened  with  corn,  ripening  for  the 
harvest.  Yonder,  in  the  valley,  was  a  fine  growth  of 
wood,  the  trees  waving  in  the  morning  breeze.  All 
around  it  were  greenest  fields,  with  an  undulating  sur 
face,  smiling  as  the  golden  sunbeams  shot  down  upon 
them.  Beyond  these  were  still  other  fields  and  groves. 
The  hills  all  around  were  covered  with  trees,  grass,  or 
ripening  grain.  In  the  valley  was  the  little  village  of 
Lebanon,  reposing  as  quietly  as  a  beautiful  bird  in  a 
green  tree. 

Walking  on  some  hundred  rods  further,  the  scenery 
was  equally  beautiful,  though  its  aspect  was  greatly 
changed.  In  an  opposite  direction,  at  a  certain  point, 
you  could  take  in,  with  one  sweep  of  vision,  miles  of  the 
most  delightful  and  sublime  scenery.  It  was  difficult  to 
say  at  what  point  the  view  was  the  best ;  for,  if  you  trav 
elled  in  a  hundred  different  directions,  you  would  find  the 
scenery  different  at  every  point.  One  moment  you  would 
think,  "it  is  the  most  beautiful  here;  "  and  the  next, 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE   SHAKERS.  331 

having  changed  your  position,  the  most  beautiful  there. 
The  surface  was  so  rounding  and  full  in  its  undulations, 
—  wave  rising  on  wave, —  and  there  were  so  many  of 
them,  and  so  different,  that  you  could  only  say,  "it  is 
all  beautiful,  all  glorious ; "  reminding  one  of  the  changes 
of  countenance  with  some  beautiful  woman,  each  one 
beautiful,  and  yet  difficult  to  say  which  the  most  beauti 
ful.  It  is  said  that  there  is  but  a  step  from  the  sublime 
to  the  ridiculous ;  and  in  one  of  my  rambles  I  had  an 
illustration  of  the  fact.  At  the  hotel  I  had  been  intro 
duced  to  a  fat.  good-natured  gentleman  of  sixty.  He 
had  formerly  been  a  merchant  in  Boston ;  and,  having 
accumulated  a  large  fortune,  he  retired  from  business, 
and  purchased  a  farm  some  twenty  miles  from  the  city. 
He  built  him  a  splendid  house  and  other  buildings,  and 
then  employed  an  experienced  farmer,  and  commenced 
the  cultivation  of  his  land.  But,  contrary  to  the  expect 
ation  of  his  neighbors  and  friends,  he  studied  agriculture, 
not  that  he  might  make  his  home  beautiful  and  attractive 
to  the  mind  and  heart,  but  so  productive  that  his  family 
would  find  ample  support,  without  using  his  vast  income 
from  railroad,  factory,  and  bank  stock,  and  rents  from 
buildings,  &c.  To  have  flowers  growing  around  his 
house  he  thought  entirely  superfluous;  but  he  entered 
largely  into  the  cultivation  of  grapes,  because  they  would 
sell  readily,  and  at  high  prices.  In  front  of  his  house 
was  a  large  field,  nearly  level,  containing  six  acres.  He 


332       NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

studied  some  time  how  to  turn  that  to  the  best  advantage. 
He  fina%  prepared  it  for  an  onion-field,  and,  in  due 
time,  it  yielded  him  great  profits. 

On  one  of  the  most  beautiful  mornings  in  Ox;tober,  I 
arose  early,  and  went  to  the  top  of  a  high  eminence,  to 
see  the  sun  rise.  Not  a  cloud  was  in  the  heavens,  and 
the  sky  was  of  the  deepest  blue,  and  the  green  earth  was 
free  from  mists  and  fogs.  There  was  a  hill  covered  with 
woods  between  me  and  the  sun ;  and  it  was  higher  than 
the  one  upon  which  I  stood,  so  that  I  could  not  see  the 
sun  when  it  first  appeared  above  the  horizon.  But  I 
was  amply  repaid  for  the  loss ;  for  the  golden  king  flashed 
his  burning  rays  through  the  trees,  and  lit  up  the  woods 
with  a  strange  fire, — for  they  looked  red  and  glowing,  and 
there  was  no  smoke  or  cinders  to  obscure  the  beauty  and 
grandeur  of  the  scene.  I  was  in  raptures,  and  I  wanted 
some  dear  friend  to  share  my  joy.  In  a  few  minutes, 
the  sun  rose  proudly  above  the  hills,  and  poured  his  rays 
down  upon  the  valleys  of  Lebanon,  covering  them  all 
over  with  smiles.  I  gazed  around  me,  happy  and  blest, 
drinking  in  largely  of  this  soul-reviving  nectar  of  the 
gods,  of  which  the  valleys  were  brimming.  Some  two 
hundred  rods  from  where  I  stood  I  saw  my  fat  acquaint 
ance,  gazing  about  him  as  though  he  was  enraptured,  as 
well  as  I.  He  had  chosen  his  point  of  observation  well, 
for  miles  of  the  most  beautiful  and  varied  scenery  could 
be  taken  in  at  one  view.  He  saw  me,  and  directed  his 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE   SHAKERS.  333 

steps  towards  me ;  and  I,  at  the  same  time,  towards  him. 
We  soon  met,  when  he  said  : 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Eaton;  a  fine,  breezy  morning." 

"  Very  beautiful,"  I  replied  j  "  and  I  have  enjoyed  it 
richly." 

"  Well,  so  have  I;  for  it  is  healthy,  and  gives  one  a 
sharp  appetite  for  breakfast.  A  good  breakfast  and  a 
^ood  appetite  are  capital  things,  Mr.  Eaton." 

"Very  true;  but  this  scenery  is  so  magnificent  and 
enchanting  that  the  soul  may  feed  upon  it." 

"Why,  yes,  the  scenery  is  well  enough,  I  suppose; 
but  it 's  lonesome,  rather  lonesome,  Mr.  Eaton, —  not 
after  my  sort,  exactly." 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  such  a  scene  as  is  here 
spread  out  before  us  is  eminently  adapted  to  the  wants 
of  man's  higher  and  better  nature?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  man's  higher  and  better 
nature ;  I  never  discovered  it  yet,  and  I  have  had  some 
dealings  with  the  animal  in  my  day  ;  — selfish,  all  selfish, 
Mr.  Eaton." 

"  But  you  believe  in  it,  do  you  not?  " 

"  Can't  say  as  I  do.  It  will  do  well  enough  to  talk 
about.  It's  what  they  call  poetry,  I  suppose; — you 
have  been  reading  poetry,  I  make  no  doubt,  Mr.  Eaton. 
I  can  get  enough  to  feed  on,  down  to  the  Columbia 
House ;  but  this  scenery  would  starve  a  cat, —  yes,  starve 
a  cat,  Mr.  Eaton.  Ha !  ha ! " 


334:  ,NEW  LEBANON.— THE  SHAKERS. 

11  But  then  you  think  it  beautiful,  Mr. ?  " 

"Tolerably  so;  but  then  I  don't  think  it's  well 
managed,  this  land  about  here.  Now,  there  's  a  fine 
valley  down  there ;  why,  there  is  as  much  as  ten  acres 
in  that  ere  field,  and  scarcely  a  stone  in  it.  Well,  sir, 
plough  that  up,  and  manure  it  well,  and  plant  it  with 
onions,  and  you  could  raise, — let  me  see, — sixty  hundred 
bushels ;  and  they  would  look  so  green  and  pleasant,  all 
growing  in  such  beautiful,  long,  straight  rows:  —  there  's 
nothing  like  it,  sir.  When  they  are  ripe,  you  could  take 
them  right  to  Albany,  and  put  them  on  board  the  boat, 
and  send  them  to  New  York  city,  and  get  your  cash ; 
besides,  they  are  excellent  cut  up  in  vinegar  for  salad, 
and  I  like  them  biled  to  eat  with  roast  beef.  But  fried 
onions,  with  pork,  is  the  greatest  onion  dish.  Did  you 
ever  eat  any  fixed  in  that  way  ?  Luscious,  sir,  luscious  ! 
They  make  my  mouth  water  to  think  of  them.  I  wish  I 
kept  the  hotel,  down  there.  I  'd  have  them  every  day." 

"  They  are  rather  fragrant,"  I  remarked. 

" I  know  they  are,  but  I  like  it;  you  can  smell  them 
a  great  ways ;  and  I  always  feel,  when  I  inhale  their 
fragrance,  as  though  the  spirit  of  my  home  had  come  out 
to  welcome  me  to  dinner.  I  have  a  fine  onion-field  in 
front  of  my  house, —  it 's  magnificent,  sir.  When  I 
bought  the  place,  I  found  six  acres  all  in  one  piece,  and 
precious  little  was  raised  on  it ;  and  I  ploughed  it  up  and 
planted-  it  with  onions.  And — would  you  believe  it,  sir  ? — 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE   SHAKERSk  335 

I  raised  last  year  forty-five  hundred  bushels  of  onions, 
•which  brought  me,  on  the  spot,  twenty-two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  !     I  have  got  a  new  field,  this  year,  which 
•will  yield  me  a  thousand  bushels  more.     That 's  the  way 
to  farm,  sir  ;  turn  your  land  to  some  profit.''' 
" Don't  you  raise  anything  but  onions? " 
"  0,  yes  !  I  sold  forty  bushels  of  grapes  last  year  ;  and 
I  raise  sweet  potatoes  and  corn, —  but  chiefly  onions." 
"  Will  sweet  potatoes  grow  in  Massachusetts?  " 
"  Yes,  but  they  are  not  very  sweet.     I  raise  a  few  for 
my  own  use,  and  a  hundred  bushels  of  the  other  kind ; 
but  nothing  pays  like  onions." 

This  was  utilitarian  enough,  in  all  conscience ;  and, 
although  he  had  sadly  interrupted  my  train  of  thought, 
and  introduced  one  which,  under  the  circumstances,  could 
not  have  entered  my  mind,  I  did  not  care  to  continue  the 
conversation ;  so  I  left  him  to  his  profound  meditations. 
I  wandered  some  distance  before  our  breakfast-hour,  but 
I  could  not  bring  back  the  feelings  which  I  had  before  I 
received  my  lesson  on  the  virtue,  productiveness,  and 
profit  of  onions.  "And  such,"  thought  I,  "are  the 
emotions  of  some  people  when  surrounded  with  those 
things  which  are  the  most  magnificent  and  beautiful." 
I  met  my  pursy  friend  again  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  I 
can  bear  ample  testimony  to  the  sharpness  of  his  appetite. 
But,  reader,  having  given  you  a  taste  of  the  ridiculous,  I 


336  NEW   LEBANON.— THE  SHAKERS. 

•will  try  and  take  the  necessary  step,  and  return  once 
more  to  the  sublime;  if,  perchance,  I  had  reached  that 
elevated  position. 

Some  mornings,  when  I  rambled  while  yet  the  dawn 
was  but  just  glimmering  in  the  east,  I  was  transported 
with  the  strange  melody  which  the  winds  played  upon 
the  harp-strings  of  the  mountains.  A  million  trees, 
swept  by  the  invisible  fingers  of  the  breeze,  vibrated  in 
unison,  sending  forth  a  continuous  roar  of  rustling  music. 
At  other  times  the  music,  or  the  manner  of  performing 
it-,  was  different. 

On  the  hill-side  a  few  trees  shook  and  rustled,  giving 
out  notes  few,  but  loud  and  distinct.  Then  the  wanton 
winds  leaped  across  the  valley,  and  made  music  there, 
which  was  soon  joined  in  by  the  trees  in  the  valley 
below ;  then  a  grove  in  the  distance  would  catch  the 
strain,  and  would  be  answered  by  the  trees  on  the  top  of 
the  mountain.  Anon,  the  hills,  the  valleys,  and  the 
mountains,  all  united  in  one  grand  chorus.  It  was  like 
listening  to  a  solo,  then  a  duet,  a  trio,  quartet,  and 
finishing  with  an  anthem,  with  full  chorus.  Down  the 
sides  of  these  mountains  leaped  many  babbling  streams, 
and,  in  their  course,  they  had  gulleyed  out  the  hills, 
making  deep  ravines  and  beautiful  glens.  In  these 
ravines  were  tall  trees,  showing  that  the  torrent  had 
done  its  work  many  years  ago.  I  often  lingered  in 
these  glens,  where  the  light  was  so  dim  when  without 


NEW   LEBANON. —  THE   SHAKERS.  337 

the  world  was  blushing  in  sunlight.  I  lingered  and  list 
ened  to  the  liquid  notes  of  the  leaping  brooks,  and  queried 
how  many  years  had  passed  away  since  they  pushed  out 
those  large  masses  of  gravel  and  slate-stone,  forming  the 
deep  ravine,  which  should  darken  more  and  more  as  the 
trees  sprang  up,  increasing  in  size  and  number.  All 
these  things  were  matter  of  interest  and  study  to  me. 
In  the  large  city  I  sought  for  an  alleviation  of  my  sor 
rows  in  vain.  Here  there  were  so  many  things  of  inter 
est,  instructive,  beautiful,  that,  at  times,  I  forgot  my 
troubles  and  disappointments.  Here  I  felt  that  I  could 
commune  with  God,  and  worship  Him  in  the  beautiful 
temples  which  his  hand  had  erected. 

There  are  a  number  of  springs  at  New  Lebanon,  and 
their  temperature  is  very  different,  ranging  from  warm  to 
very  cold.  The  coldest  is  but  a  few  degrees  above  freez 
ing,  in  the  hottest  days  of  summer ;  while  the  warmest 
pours  out  water  enough  to  keep  the  machinery  of  a  small 
satinet  factory  moving  the  year  round.  And  they  are 
not  troubled  with  ice  anywhere  about  the  mill,  for  the 
warm  water  from  the  spring  keeps  the  stream  clear  from 
it. 

I  have  since  been  at  New  Lebanon  in  the  month  of 
December,  when  it  was  extremely  cold,  and  the  little 
pond  of  water  below  the  warm  spring  was  entirely  clear 
from  ice,  and  there  was  quite  a  steam  arising  from  its 
surface.  I  half-fancied  that  it  was  old  Nick's  wash- 
29 


338    •   NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

kettle,  and  he  had  got  his  fire  kindled  under  it ;  and  I 
expected  soon  to  see  it  boil.  I  went  and  put  my  hands 
into  it,  and  found  a  very  agreeable  contrast  between 
the  cold,  frosty  air  and  the  warm  water. 

While  at  New  Lebanon,  I  frequently  visited  that 
strange  class  of  people  called  Shakers.  This  was  the 
first  settlement  formed  in  the  country.  Ann  Lee,  or 
Mother  Ann,  with  a  few  devoted  followers,  pitched  their 
tent  here.  She  met  with  some  persecution.  In  a  two- 
story  red  house,  about  a  mile  from  the  Shaker  village. 
she  was  tried  for  certain  misdemeanors,  and  the  Shakers 
say  that  she  was  dragged  down  stairs  by  the  hair  of  her 
head.  She  then  prophesied  the  time  would  come  when 
there  would  be  Shaker  worship  in  that  house.  The 
prophecy  proved  true  ;  for,  many  years  after  her  death, 
the  house  was  offered  for  sale,  and  the  Shakers  bought  it, 
and  then  they  had  a  glorious  time;  for  they  danced, 
sung,  exhorted  and  prayed,  in  every  room  in  the  build 
ing,  from  the  attic  to  the  cellar. 

I  was  pleased  with  the  neatness  and  taste  everywhere 
displayed  about  their  premises.  Their  buildings  were  all 
in  good  order,  and  every  room  like  wax-work.  The 
same  care  was  taken  of  the  out-buildings.  Some  of  their 
barns  were  models  for  the  saving  of  labor  and  strength. 
It  did  one  good  to  go  into  them,  they  were  so  clean  ;  and 
then  the  cattle  and  horses  were  in  such  good  condition. 
They  did  not  look  as  though  they  were  half-starved,  over- 


NEW   LEBANON. —  THE   SHAKERS.  339 

worked  and  shamefully  whipped.  Evidently  the  best 
care  was  taken  of  them ;  and  there  are  very  many  people 
who  would  do  well  to  copy  after  the  Shakers,  and  learn 
to  treat  with  kindness  all  the  creatures  of  God. 

The  Shakers  early  adopted  the  community  system,  and 
it  has  succeeded  well  for  them.  Everything  shows  a 
reasonable  degree  of  prosperity  and  success.  Their  fields 
are  well  cultivated,  and  all  things  seem  to  move  on 
harmoniously ;  and,  from  all  that  I  saw  of  them,  I  con 
ceived  them  to  be  an  honest,  sincere  people.  The  idea 
which  many  entertain,  that  they  are  false  to  their  profes 
sion,  I  believe  to  be  erroneous.  To  prevent  the  passions 
from  being  excited,  or  the  awakening  of  carnal  desires, 
the  utmost  precaution  is  observed.  The  dress  of  the 
sexes  is  so  fashioned  that  the  form  loses  its  natural  volup 
tuous  appearance;  and  this  is  designed  that  the  pas 
sions  may  not  be  excited.  The  dresses  of  the  women  are 
cut  high  in  the  neck  and  extend  to  their  feet ;  the  waists 
are  very  short  and  slightly  gathered,  making  the  wearer 
look  long,  lean  and  lank,  and,  like  some  of  Dickens' 
females,  which  he  so  graphically  describes,  all  the  way  of 
a  bigness.  There  is  no  probability  of  the  Bloomer  cos 
tume  being  adopted  by  the  Shakers.  They  would  regard 
it  as  a  device  of  the  devil,  and  would  look  upon  it  with 
all  the  horror  of  the  many  very  prudish  old  maids  of  both 
sexes.  The  Shaker  women  usually  wear  neck-cloths,  which 
are  closely  buttoned  up  to  the  chin.  They  wear  white 


340       NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

caps  upon  their  heads,  fitting  close  and  smoothly,  and 
jutting  out  in  front  some  two  inches,  concealing  a  side- 
view  of  the  face. 

In  the  summer  season,  on  Sundays,  their  dresses  are 
•white ;  and,  should  they  he  seen  in  or  near  a  grave-yard, 
•with  their  lank  faces,  pale,  sallow  complexion,  and 
sunken  eyes,  they  would  most  likely  be  taken  for  a  com 
pany  of  dead  folks,  who  had  come  out  of  their  graves  to 
take  the  air. 

The  same  caution  is  observed  in  the  dress  of  the  other 
sex.  The  fashion  of  either  is  anything  but  pleasing  or 
beautiful.  When  nature  arrays  herself,  we  always 
observe  that  her  garments  are  fashioned  in  the  most  pleas 
ing  and  delightful  manner.  We  are  ever  charmed  with 
the  simplicity  and  beauty  which  smile  from  every  valley, 
and  look  down  from  every  tree.  In  their  season  her 
robes  are  gorgeous,  enriched  with  a  thousand  colors  and 
beautiful  tints.  Her  appearance  is  ever  lovely,  ever 
inviting.  Nature's  children  love  her  so  well,  and  believe 
her  so  wise  and  perfect,  that  they  delight  to  copy  after 
her.  The  Shakers,  living  in  the  continual  violation  of  her 
laws  in  relation  to  the  sexes,  and  the  dearest  and  most 
holy  social  relations,  must,  of  necessity,  set  her  example 
at  naught  in  the  fashioning  of  their  apparel.  The  sexes 
are  not  allowed  to  clasp  each  other  by  the  hand,  or 
exchange  any  of  those  little  endearments  and  courtesies 
which  are  so  natural  and  so  pleasing.  A  man  is  never 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKER&.  341 

allowed  to  travel  or  be  alone  with  one  woman  ;  but  he  can 
travel  with  two,  or  two  men  may  travel  with  one  of  the 
other  sex.  The  women  salute  each  other  with  holy  kisses ; 
so  also  the  men.  On  pleasant  days,  they  hold  meetings 
on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  and  parties,  miles  apart, 
toss  holy  kisses  at  each  other.  Their  worship  consists  in 
marching,  dancing,  whirling  and  singing.  They  will 
whirl  for  hours,  and  at  last  fall  down  in  what  they  call  a 
trance.  In  their  jumpings  they  throw  themselves  into  the 
most  grotesque  and  surprising  shapes.  Whirling  for  a 
great  length  of  time,  and  jumping,  &c.,  only  occur  when 
they  are  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  when  they  "  get  up 
the  power." 

In  the  Shaker  Godhead  there  is  a  quaternity,  instead 
of  a  trinity, —  four  persons,  instead  of  three.  The  first  is 
the  efernal  Father,  and  the  second  Ann  Lee,  the  eternal 
mother;  the  third  the  Son,  and  the  fourth  the  Holy 
Ghost.  All  who  have  not  had  an  opportunity  to  hear 
the  Shaker  gospel  in  this  world  will  have  it  proclaimed  to 
them  in  the  next.  Very  many  of  the  great  men,  kings, 
statesmen,  orators,  generals,  &c.,  have  heard  the  gospel 
since  they  died,  and  have  become  believers  and  leaders  in 
the  Shaker  bands  of  the  spirit-world.  The  patriarch 
Abraham  is  one  of  their  first  and  best;  so  they  sing, 

"  Father  is  a  leader  ; 
Let  us  all  be  true,  that 

29* 


342  NEW  LEBANON.— THE   SHAKERS. 

We  may  have  a  portion 

Of  Mother's  love  and  blessing." 

In  singing  they  perform  but  one  part,  the  air  of 
the  tune  ;  and,  as  many  of  the  voices  are  not  adapted  to 
the  air,  and  can  only  reach  it  with  a  great  deal  of  effort, 
the  effect  is  anything  but  pleasing.  They  have  a  sound 
ing-board  overhead,  and  I  heard  them  sing  some  tunes 
which  run  very  high  ;  and  the  noise  was  hideous, —  more 
like  screeching  than  singing.  Their  tunes  and  songs,  in 
known  and  unknown  tongues,  are  all  given  by  inspiration. 
To  do  them  justice,  some  of  their  music  is  excellent ;  and, 
as  the  Shakers  sing  it  with  great  spirit,  it  sounds  well, 
if  the  voices  are  not  strained  up  to  an  unnatural  pitch. 

The  Shakers  are  all  spiritualists,  and  they  receive  con 
tinually  light  and  instruction  from  the  spirit-land.^  With 
the  exception  of  Shakerism,  they  represent  the  immortal 
world  very  much  the  same  as  the  spiritualists  of  to-day. 
Good  and  evil  spirits  are  there ;  and  both  classes  visit 
this  world, —  the  former  for  benevolent,  and  the  latter  for 
evil  purposes.  Mother  Ann  has  her  wine-press,  and  she 
sends  wine  to  the  most  faithful  Shakers,  and  they 
actually  get  drunk  on  the  wine  of  the  spiritual  kingdom. 
According  to  some  modern  spiritualists,  the  spirits  in  the 
other  world,  or  in  another  sphere,  who  love  intoxicating 
drinks,  gratify  their  appetites  by  entering  the  bodies  of 
the  intemperate  here,  or  by  inhaling  the  vapor  of  spirit ; 


NEW   LEBANON. —  THE   SHAKERS.  343 

and  no  lock  and  key  can  keep  them  out  of  wine-cellars, 
or  any  place  they  choose  to  enter  ;  so  the  Maine  law  will 
not  save  them,  and  legislators  who  are  interested  in  the 
welfare  of  spiritualists  should  take  the  matter  into  consid 
eration. 

There  are  only  a  portion  of  the  Shakers  who  get  drunk 
on  Ann  Lee's  wine,  and  they  are  a  class  of  persons  such 
as  may  be  found  everywhere,  who  are  naturally  mesmeric 
subjects,  who  may  be  said  to  be  in  a  negative  state  or 
condition,  instead  of  positive,  and  so  they  are  easily 
affected,  thrown  into  trances,  bewitched,  cured  of  scrofula 
by  seventh  sons,  and  formerly  by  kings  and  princes ; 
they  see  ghosts,  and  visit  the  spirit- world ;  they  are 
quickly  excited  and  alarmed ;  and  men  of  powerful  minds, 
who  are  zealous,  can  excite  them  to  despair,  and  sway 
them  to  and  fro,  as  they  please.  Meats,  cakes  and  many 
other  things,  are  sent  from  the  spirit  world  to  the  Shak 
ers  ;  and  a  highly-gifted  one,  called  a  Visionist,  will 
take  them  and  pass  them  round  to  such  as  are  gifted 
sufficiently  to  receive  them.  The  pantomime  which  fol 
lows  is  most  absurd  and  ridiculous ;  for  they  go  through  all 
the  motions  of  receiving  food,  and  eating  and  drin^d^ 
The  really  gifted  are,  in  truth,  the  negative  or  mesmeric. 
The  spirits  of  all  nations,  times,  states  and  conditions, 
visit  the  Shakers ;  and,  for  some  reason, —  and  what  it  is 
I  know  not, — it  becomes  a  duty  to  take  in  these  wan 
dering  spirits.  Each  Shaker  will  receive  a  spirit  into  his 


344       NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

body,  and  then  he  is  under  the  control  of  the  spirit  he 
has  received,  and  will  act  as  it  directs,  or  as  it  was  in 
the  habit  of  doing  in  this  world.  The  effect  is  ludicrous 
in  the  extreme. 

The  treatment  of  dumb  animals  by  the  Shakers,  their 
order  and  neatness,  is  well  worthy  of  attention  and  imi 
tation.  Strict  abstinence  from  all  sexual  pleasures  is 
the  main  idea  of  their  religion.  They  are  the  only 
people  of  God ;  for  they  live  free  from  the  "  lusts  of  the 
Jlesh.^  They  have  "  put  off  the  old  man  which  is  cor 
rupt  according  to  the  deceitful  lusts"  and  have  "  put 
on  the  new  man  which  after  God  is  created  in  righteous 
ness  and  true  holiness."  They  are  the  "hundred  and 
forty-four  thousand"  who  are  to  follow  the  Lamb,  spoken 
of  in  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  Revelation. 

A  number  of  times  I  was  present,  and  witnessed  their 
manner  of  worship.  The  room  in  which  they  held  their 
meetings,  was  perfectly  neat ;  the  floor  white,  and  it  had 
been  scrubbed  till  it  shone.  On  one  side  of  the  room 
were  seats  for  visitors,  those  out  of  the  gospel.  The  seats 
for  the  Shakers  were  light,  movable  benches  ;  and  when 
they  danced  or  marched,  the  benches  were  moved  back. 
When  the  male  Shakers  entered  their  place  of  worship, 
they  all  took  off  their  coats,  and  hung  them  up  on  wooden 
pegs;  so  there  were  a  hundred  coats,  all  made  alike, 
hung  on  a  hundred  pegs,  exactly  even,  and  at  just  such 
a  distance  from  each  other.  The  Shaker  women  all  had 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS.  345 

\ 

neat  white  folded  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands,  and  thejr 
held  them  precisely  alike.  Part  of  the  room  was  occu 
pied  by  the  men,  and  part  by  the  women,  there  being 
about  three  feet  between  them.  They  stood  in  ranks, 
the  men  and  women  face  to  face.  The  tallest  Shakers 
were  in  the  centre  ranks,  the  next  tallest  in  the  next 
rank,  and  so  on  to  the  last. 

Their  exercises,  dances,  songs  and  exhortations,  vary 
from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath.  Sometimes  they  sit  down  on 
the  portable  benches,  and  sit  perfectly  still;  and  then 
arise,  and,  without  noise  or  confusion,  move  back  the 
benches,  resume  their  places,  and  as  soon  as  the  singers 
(some  six  or  eight  of  the  brothers  and  sisters,  who  stand 
apart  by  themselves)  strike  up  a  tune  or  song,  they 
commence  a  march  or  dance.  The  palms  of  their  hands 
are  held  towards  their  faces,  and  as  they  dance  or  march 
they  swing  them  up  and  down  in  perfect  time.  Their 
steps  in  dancing  are  very  simple  ;  not  light  and  graceful, 
but  the  motion  might  be  considered  springy  walking. 
They  would  move  towards  the  centre,  and  then  back, 
singing, 

"  Joyfully  we  will  advance, 
And  in  his  praises  sing  and  dance  ; 
On  the  sea  of  glass  we  stand, 
With  harps  of  glory  in  our  hand." 

This  was  continued  some  time,  and  when  they  stopped 
one  of  the  elders  made  a  speech,  or  gave  an  exhortation. 


346       NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

• 

After  this  they  had  a  march,  and  then  a  lively  dance, 
•with  a  shuffle.  The  words  sung  were,  as  well  as  I  can 
remember,  the  following : 

"  I  love  to  dance,  I  love  to  sing, 

I  love  to  be  a  Shaker  ; 
I  never  knew  the  grace  of  God, 
Until  I  was  a  Shaker,"  etc.  etc. 

When  they  had  danced  until  they  were  weary,  another 
elder  made  a  speech,  in  which  he  said  that  Christ  re 
quired  the  people  to  become  like  little  children ;  and  he 
thought  the  Shakers  were  Christ's  disciples,  because  they 
walked  about  with  the  carelessness  of  little  children, 
instead  of  being  stiff  and  nicely  dressed,  and  preaching 
from  elegant  pulpits.  The  elder  spoke  of  "  starched, 
stiff ed-up  pulpits"  but  I  presume  he  meant  elegant. 
"  Such  ministers  and  people,"  said  he,  "  are  carnal, 
and  not  spiritual ;  they  are  in  a  state  of  natur,  but  we 
are  like  little  children,  and  have  entered  the  kingdom-, 
and  let  us,  like  them,  march  on  our  heavenly  way. 

They  then  commenced  a  circular  march,  moving  in 
a  manner  which  would  show,  in  their  apprehension,  that 
they  were  really  and  truly  the  little  children  of  the 
kingdom.  Their  bodies  were  inclined  forward,  their  arms 
at  right  angles,  and  as  they  went  swinging,- teetering 
and  springing  along,  you  would  have  supposed  that  their 
joints  were  all  nicely  connected  with  patent  elastic 
springs,  so  that  they  could  bob  up  and  down  without  the 


NEW  LEBANON.— THE  SHAKERS.  34T 

least  inconvenience.  All  the  time  they  were  swinging 
their  hands,  as  though  they  were  very  warm,  and  were 
to  keep  the  air  in  motion.  At  times  I  was 
igly  inclined  to  laugh,  the  whole  thing  seemed  so 
much  like  a  solemn  burlesque ;  but  the  sharp  eyes  of 
some  of  the  sisters  were  placed  upon  me  in  solemn  re 
buke,  and  I  endeavored  to  keep  my  countenance,  and 
observe  due  decorum. 

Old  Antichrist  frequently  troubles  the  Shakers,  and 
when  he  seriously  interrupts  their  spiritual  communion 
and  worship,  they  take  measures  to  drive  him  off;  they 
will  all  shake  and  stamp  in  the  most  violent  and  ridicu 
lous  manner,  the  whole  family  uniting,  old  and  young. 
The  visionist  perceives  when  he  is  fairly  shaken  off  and 
conquered;  and  then  the  following  song  is  sung  and 
danced  with  great  animation : 

"  Come  life,  —  Shaker  life  ! 

Come  life  eternal ! 
Shake,  shake  out  of  me 

All  that  is  carnal. 
I  '11  take  nimble  steps, 

I  '11  be  a  David, 
I '11  show  Michael  twice 

How  he  behaved." 

Here  is  a  specimen  of  an  unknown  tongue,  which  is 
sung  as  a  chorus  to  some  of  their  songs  : 


"348  NEW  LEBANON.— THE   SHAKERS. 


"  Vi  a  lo  vi  al  le, 
Vi  al  le  a  lando, 
Vi  al  lo  vi  al-le 
Vi  al  le  a  lando." 

While  this  is  being  sung,  they  dance  what  they  call 
the  round  dance.  They  run  in  a  measured  step,  and 
suddenly  stop,  and  face  about  and  shuffle.  This  is  con 
tinued  as  long  as  the  singers  have  the  gift ;  or,  in  other 
words,  until  they  are  weary. 

I  could  relate  many  other  interesting  and  absurd 
things  of  the  Shakers,  such  as  the  jerks,  dumb  devils, 
mortification  gifts,  the  visits  of  the  devil,  the  calling 
in  of  good  spirits,  etc. ;  but  perchance  the  reader  will 
scarcely  pardon  the  digression  I  have  already  made. 
Part  of  these  things  I  saw,  and  part  I  learned  from  a 
man  who  had  lived  with  the  Shakers  from  a  child  until 
he  was  twenty-five.  At  that  age  he  left  them,  but  still 
remained  at  Lebanon. 

On  the  first  of  November  I  bade  farewell  to  my  new 
acquaintances,  and  returned  to  New  York  city.  I  did 
not  so  much  regret  leaving  New  Lebanon  Springs  as  1 
might  have  done  at  some  other  season  of  the  year.  The 
frost  king  had  been  there,  and  despoiled  the  forests  of 
their  glory  and  beauty,  and  laid  the  loveliest  things  low 
in  the  dust.  The  heavy  winds  went  sweeping  over  the 
mountains,  tearing  every  leaf  from  branches  which  had 
been  clothed  in  such  sweet  comeliness;  and  the  trees 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

*  &' 

trembled  and  shook  in  the  frosty  blast,  as  though  they 
stood  in  great  fear  of  the  increasing  cold,  stripped  of 
their  coats  of  beautifff  green  ;  and  they  sent  forth  on  the 
•wings  of  the  rushing  tempest  a  mighty  wail  over  their 
desolation.  I  had  no  heart  in  this  ;  for  it  seemed  to  me 
that  my  inner  life  had  come  out  and  daguerreotyped 
itself  upon  nature,  changing  its  sweet  face,  and  leaving 
it  in  grief  and  ruin ;  so  I  left  all  those  once  enchanting 
scenes  in  their  desolation,  and  went  to  Hudson,  where  I 
took  the  boat  and  sailed  down  the  North  river,  landing 
once  more  in  the  great  city. 

Ernest  and  Irene  were  married  at  the  time  appointed 
and,  agreeably  to  their  wishes,  but  not  according  to  their 
expectations,  Ernest  was  immediately  offered  a  partner 
ship  with  Mr.  Dinneford,  which  he  thankfully  accepted. 
He  rented,  soon  after,  a  neat  and  commodious  house, 
and  took  his  mother  home  to  live  with  him.  With  little 
inclination  to  return  home,  I  spent  the  winter  in  visiting 
different  cities,  staying  a  few  weeks  in  each.  I  went  to 
Philadelphia,  Baltimore  and  Washington.  At  the  latter 
place  I  remained  two  months,  occupying  my  time  in 
listening  to  the  debates  in  Congress,  visiting  places  of 
interest  and  amusement,  and  making  new  and  agreeable 
acquaintances.  In  April  I  returned  to  New  York,  where 
I  remained  until  May,  boarding  with  Mr.  Brown.  At 
his  house  I  found  a  pleasant  home ;  but  I  could  not  enjoy 
it,  for  there  was  a  continual  yearning  in  my  soul  for 
30 


350       NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SUAKERS. 

something  purer  and  Holier  than  I  had  yet  tasted, —  for 
mutual,  faithful  love.  Travel,  excitement,  amusements, 
books,  interesting  scenery  and  frUbds,  would  not  satisfy 
the  cravings  of  my  nature ;  I  must  have  something  more. 
I  must  love  and  be  loved,  or  seek  for  happiness  in  vain. 
Sometimes  I  half  envied  Ernest,  and  blamed  myself  for 
having  given  up  Irene.  She  was  such  a  pattern  of  a 
wife  that  to  dwell  in  her  family  for  a  brief  space  would 
make  any  bachelor  discontented  -with  his  state  of  single 
wretchedness.  Mr.  Dinneford  expressed  himself  well 
pleased  with  Ernest ;  nevertheless,  he  said  that  it  was  a 
severe  disappointment  at  the  time,  for  he  had  set  his 
heart  upon  having  me  for  a  son-in-law,  and  a  partner  in 
business.  Ernest  and  Irene  often  rallied  me  on  my 
dejected  appearance,  but  I  kept  the  cause  thereof  to 
myself.  That  they  surmised  it  I  half  suspected. 

I  was  so  well  pleased  with  the  scenery  at  Lebanon, 
in  the  autumn,  that  I  resolved  to  return  in  the  spring. 
May  I  regarded  as  a  fitting  season.  When  I  sailed 
up  the  Hudson  the  trees  were  in  blossom,  and  the 
young  leaves  were  richly  enrobing  the  branches,  where 
gay  birds  poured  forth  gushes  of  song  and  glad  melody, 
which  made  the  woods  and  fields  and  glens  to  ring  and 
rejoice  with  music.  When  I  arrived  at  the  Springs  the 
season  was  more  backward.  But  the  fields  were  green, 
and  the  buds,  on  a  million  naked  trees,  were  just  ready 
to  open,  and  clothe  them  all  in  robes  of  virgin  purity  and 


NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS.       351 

beauty.  But  what  availed  all  this  beautiful  scenery? 
It  did  not  fill  up  that  aching  void.  I  was  as  restless  as 
Noah's  dove,  when  she  swept  over  the  vast  expanse  of 
waters,  but  could  find  no  rest.  I  had  received  letters 
from  home,  urging  me  to  cease  my  wanderings  and 
return  to  those  who  would  give  me  a  fond  welcome.  I 
resolved  to  go. 

On  the  twentieth  of  May  I  left  Lebanon,  and  travelled 
to  Boston,  by  the  way  of  Pittsfield,  finding  much  to 
interest  me  in  old  Berkshire,  the  roughest  and  healthiest 
county  in  the  Bay  State.  In  Berkshire  the  scenery  is 
wild  and  grand.  It  was  interesting  and  awe-inspiring  to 
gaze  upon  those  old  mountains,  which  have  stood  from 
century  to  century,  resting  their  heads  against  the  sky, 
and  washing  their  wild  locks  in  the  waters  of  the  storm 
and  thunder-cloud.  The  air  was  bracing  and  strengthen 
ing.  Sweeping  down,  pure  and  fresh,  from  the  jagged 
hills  and  mountains,  it  was  very  refreshing  and  reviving 
to  one  who  had  spent  months  in  cities. 

At  home  I  received  a  most  cordial  welcome.  Mrs. 
Stewart  actually  wept  for  joy.  Contrary  to  my  expect 
ations,  I  there  found  Helen  Means.  She  was  on  a  visit 
to  Mrs.  Stewart,  which  was  to  extend  to  a  number  of 
weeks.  I  was  too  happy  to  see  her  again  to  feign  cold 
ness;  and,  had  I  wished  it,  I  should  have  found  it  a 
difficult  task.  I  could  not  doubt  that  she  was  truly  glad 
to  see  me,  for  it  was  evident  that  she  found  it  difficult  to 


352       NEW  LEBANON. —  THE  SHAKERS. 

refrain  from  weeping.  Laboring  on  the  farm,  and  with 
her  society,  and  that  of  my  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
Mrs.  Stewart's  motherly  care,  my  time  passed  very 
agreeably.  A  few  weeks  spent  in  the  company  of 
Helen  convinced  me,  more  and  more,  how  utterly  im 
possible  it  was  to  expect  happiness  in  this  world  unless 
she  became  my  wife.  I  might  endure  life  while  she  re 
mained  single  —  but  if  she  should  marry  another !  —  the 
very  thought  was  madness.  But  what  had  I  to  hope  ? 
She  had  twice  refused  me,  and  I  had  pledged  myself  not 
to  urge  my  suit  again  ;  and  yet  I  could  not  for  a  moment 
forego  the  idea  that  I  should  yet  win  the  priceless  jewel. 
While  Helen  remained  I  was  measurably  contented, 
but  as  soon  as  she  was  gone  I  found  life  a  burden.  In 
vain  I  cultivated  the  acquaintance  of  the  young  ladies  in 
the  neighborhood ;  in  vain  I  sought  relief  in  interesting 
books, —  in  procuring  the  newest  and  most  fashionable 
novels, —  all  would  not  do.  Previous  to  Helen's  de 
parture,  she  asked  me  if  the  year  was  not  almost  gone, 
and  invited  me  to  visit  them  very  soon.  I  resolved  that 
I  would  do  so  as  soon  as  we  should  have  finished  haying. 
I  might  have  gone  before,  but  my  pride  held  me  back. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

HELEN  MEANS  AND   MYSELF. 

DURING  my  absence,  Deacon  Webber  had  grown  so 
ugly  and  miserly  that  even  his  own  children,  such  per 
fect  chips  of  the  old  block,  could  not  live  with  him.  He 
now  occupied  his  house  alone.  I  met  him,  one  day,  on 
my  way  to  the  village,  and  I  was  surprised  to  see  the 
change  which  one  year  had  wrought.  His  form  was 
bent,  and  his  clothes  ragged  and  filthy.  He  had  not  cut 
his  gray,  stiff  beard  for  months.  With  his  malignant 
eyes,  hollow  cheeks,  wrinkled  forehead,  swarthy  skin, 
and  long,  gray  beard,  half  covering  his  thin,  dry  lips,  his 
uncombed  hair,  and  the  filth  and  dirt  which  clung  to  his 
ragged  garments,  hands  and  face,  he  was  a  horrible 
sight  to  look  upon.  Though  his  appearance  was  dis 
gusting  in  the  extreme,  I  could  but  pity  the  poor  wretch. 
As  much  as  I  had  hated  him,  as  much  as  I  now  de 
spised  him,  he  had  fallen  so  low  that  I  did  not  wish  to 
harm  a  hair  of  his  head.  He  had  become  a  general 
object  of  loathing,  and  I  would  sooner  have  done  him  a 
kindness  than  to  have  inflicted  an  injury. 
30* 


354  HELEN   MEANS   AND   MYSELF. 

He  recognized  me.  and  a  fiend  could  not  have  gathered 
more  of  hatred  and  malignity  in  his  countenance.  His 
brow  darkened,  his  eyes  gleamed  with  the  fiercest  fires 
of  brutal  revenge,  and  his  lips  seemed  ready  to  spit  out 
venom  and  spite.  Unmoved,  except  with  disgust,  I 
passed  by  him ;  but  I  could  hear  him  grind  his  teeth  and 
growl  for  some  time  after  I  had  left  him.  He  looked  as 
though  he  would  be  glad  to  spring  upon  me,  and,  like  a 
wild  beast,  tear  me  limb  from  limb.  And  this  was  the 
pious,  praying  deacon;  the  "  burning  and  shining  light." 
This  was  the  man  who  had  so  often  doomed  his  fellow- 
creatures  to  inconceivable  torments;  and  now  what  a 
doom  was  his  !  All  the  time  he  was  professing  godliness 
he  was  a  pharisaical  hypocrite,  and  it  had  given  him  the 
heart  of  a  devil ;  and  he  who  has  such  a  heart  is  in  the 
lowest  hell,  whether  in  this  world  or  another. 

The  deacon's  whole  object  now  was  to  accumulate 
property.  Gold  was  his  god,  and  all  his  vows  were  paid 
at  its  altar.  He  lent  money,  took  mortgages  of  lands 
and  buildings,  and,  as  his  creditors  often  failed  to  redeem 
them,  his  property  rapidly  increased.  He  sold  for  ready 
money  nearly  every  article  of  household  furniture,  beds, 
and  bedding,  and  then  lived  more  like  a  brute  than  a 
man.  He  afterwards  rented  the  house,  all  but  one  room. 
His  children  continued  to  show  him  the  respect  which  is 
due  from  a  child  to  a  parent,  not  from  love,  but  that 
they  might  inherit  his  fortune.  A  number  of  excuses 


HELEN  MEANS  AND  MYSELF.  355 

were  given  for  leaving  him,  but  the  true  one  was  kept 
out  of  sight. 

In  September  I  again  visited  my  uncle.  I  was  re 
ceived  with  that  familiarity  and  kindness  which  parents 
bestow  upon  children.  They  had  always  treated  me  like 
a  child.  The  only  reception  which  seemed  at  all  cold 
was  from  my  uncle,  on  my  first  return  from  New  York. 
Some  days  then  passed  away  before  I  could  feel  as  easy 
in  his  company  as  formerly.  There  was  no  change  in 
my  aunt ;  and  now  she  expressed  much  anxiety  in  re 
lation  to  my  health,  and  begged  me  to  stay  and  let  her 
doctor  me,  until  I  should  get  rid  of  that  pale,  languid 
look,  and  bring  back  the  color  and  sprightliness  which  I 
once  possessed^  I  required  but  little  urging  to  comply, 
for  I  could  dwell  in  the  presence  of  one  whose  attractive 
loveliness  increased  with  every  hour.  To  be  near  her 
was  now  my  greatest  happiness.  By  her  side  I  could  sit 
for  hours,  though  not  one  word  was  spoken.  To  catch 
one  glance  of  her  beautiful  eyes,  or  feel  the  touch  of  her 
hand,  which  thrilled  my  whole  being,  was  a  pleasure 
which  I  sought  elsewhere  in  vain.  So  intense  and  all- 
absorbing  was  my  love,  that  I  could  have  died  for  her ; 
but  to  live  without  her  was  worse  than  dying. 

In  spite  of  my  aunt's  motherly  care  and  nursing,  my 
health,  instead  of  improving,  was  every  day  growing 
more  precarious.  In  vain  she  prepared  me  strengthening 
syrups,  and  labored  with  a  mother's  care  and  anxiety  to 


356  HELEN  MEANS  AND   MYSELF. 

bring  back  my  lost  health  and  spirits.  In  the  presence 
of  Helen  there  were  moments  of  intense  happiness ;  but 
every  moment  only  made  me  so  much  the  more  anxious 
to  press  her  to  my  heart,  and  hear  her  whisper  the  dear 
•words,  "  I  am  thine !  "  She  engaged  all  my  thoughts, 
all  my  wishes,  and  all  my  hopes ;  and  yet  I  was  debarred 
the  privilege  of  asking  her  to  crown  my  long  and  ardent 
devotion  with  her  love.  I  knew  not  what  to  do,  and 
sometimes  indulged  in  bitter  thoughts  against  her  who 
was  dearer  to  me  than  my  own  life.  Helen  seemed  to 
grow  restless  and  uneasy,  and  I  often  caught  her  eyes 
fixed  earnestly  upon  me.  But  those  eyes  had  before 
deceived  me,  or  I  was  unable  to  read  their  language ; 
and  how  could  I  hope  to  understand  tjpm  now  ?  My 
uncle,  too,  often  regarded  me  with  an  inquiring  and 
troubled  look. 

After  two  or  three  weeks  of  miserable  doubt  and  sus 
pense,  the  most  bitter  thoughts  began  to  rankle  in  my 
heart,  and  the  result  was  that  Helen's  society,  in  a 
measure,  lost  its  charm.  She  noticed  it,  and,  as  I 
thought,  tried  to  throw  around  me  a  witchery  that  I 
could  not  resist.  I  thought  she  must  be  a  coquette,  and 
kept  aloof  from  her  as  much  as  possible.  When  in  her 
society,  I  was  moody  and  silent.  I  resolved  to  return 
home.  I  named  the  day,  but,  in  accordance  with  my 
uncle's  wishes,  postponed  the  time  one  week ;  but  I 
resolved  that  Helen  should  not  profit  by  it,  for  I  would 


HELEN   MEANS   AND   MYSELF.  357 

absent  myself  from  her  as  much  as  I  could  conveniently, 
and  when  with  her  talk  as  little  as  possible.  The  con 
sequences  were  that  I  was  all  repulsion,  and  she  all 
attraction.  An  almost  irresistible  charm  hung  around 
her,  and  it  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  I  could  over 
come  its  power.  She  sometimes  seemed  as  though  she 
would  be  glad  to  open  her  heart,  and  tell  me  all  its 
desires  and  hopes ;  but  I  repelled  her  with  all  the  strength 
I  could  muster.  "  Surely,"  thought  I,  "  she  is  a  com 
plete  coquette."  I  often  reflected  upon  the  utter  impos 
sibility  of  Helen  Means  being  a  coquette ;  but  how  else 
could  I  account  for  her  present  conduct  ? 

My  last  week  of  probation  had  nearly  expired.  In 
two  days  more  I  should  return  home,  and  remain  until 
the  marriage  of  Thomas  and  Lizzie,  which  would  take 
place  the  next  month ;  and  then  I  would  go  I  knew  not 
and  cared  not  whither.  To  get  away  from  myself  would 
be  my  greatest  desire.  0,  it  is  a  sad  thing  for  the 
young  heart  to  be  so  overburdened  that  it  would  gladly 
escape  from  its  own  thoughts,  and  forget  its  own  identity  ! 
Many  a  one  flies  from  home,  friends,  and  from  all  that  Js 
dear, —  from  every  object  loved,  around  which  memory 
•ings, —  as  the  startled  fawn  flies  from  the  hunter  and 
the  hound.  He  goes  out  into  the  great  wilderness-world, 
not  to  find  joy,  peace  or  happiness,  but  that  he  may 
leave  the  pangs  of  disappointment  and  broken  hopes  far, 
far  behind,  or  drown  them  in  excitement,  and  charm 


358  HELEN   MEANS   AND   MYSELF. 

them  away  with  new  scenes  and  new  faces.  I,  too, 
would  go,  and  long  years  should  pass  away  ere  I  again 
returned.  The  image  of  her  I  loved  so  well  I  would 
tear  from  my  heart,  and  tread  it  under  my  feet.  The 
blissful  hours  and  blessed  moments  which  had  so  cheered 
us  in  the  bright  past,  and  which  now  rilled  memory's 
halls  with  beautiful  forms  and  diviner  shapes,  should, 
every  one  of  them,  hasten  away ;  and  I  would  crowd 
them  with  delights  drawn  from  new  scenes  and  new 
hopes. 

Day  had  once  more  said  good-night  to  the  world,  and 
the  evening  shadows  again  marshalled  their  dusky  troops 
to  cover  the  earth  with  darkness.  Twilight  lingered 
long,  as  if  unwilling  to  turn  away  its  rosy  face  from  such 
an  enchanting  scene.  It  was  glorious;  for  a  gorgeous 
autumnal  sunset  had  poured  upon  the  world  a  billowy 
flood  of  golden  smiles.  The  great  king  of  light  went 
down  encircled  with  glory, —  as  goes  the  good  man  to  his 
rest,  when  his  work  on  earth  is  done, —  and  the  lingering 
red  of  the  western  sky  faded  into  the  clear  blue.  And 
now  the  harvest  moon,  the  lovely  queen  of  night,  rode 
proudly  on  high,  making  the  white  clouds  her  chariot, 
and  decking  it  with  stars.  As  she  swept  through  th& 
skies,  she  marshalled  her  armies  of  light  and  beauty,  and 
sent  them  forth  on  their  nightly  errand  of  love  and  peace 
to  every  child  of  humanity  who  will  but  look  up  and 
drink  in  their  smiles,  and  open  his  ears  to  the  music  of 


HELEN  MEANS  AND  MYSELF.         859 

the  heavenly  hosts !  0,  how  magnificent  were  the 
clouds,  sailing  through  the  heavens  with  the  grace  and 
majesty  of  mighty  worlds  !  Some  were  red,  rosy  and 
white,  and  others  were  blue  and  orange,  and  some  seemed 
to  catch  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  blending  them  in 
most  wondrous  beauty. 

But,  although  the  evening  was  so  delightful  and  soul- 
inspiring,  I  was  in  no  mood  to  enjoy  it.  I  could  not 
close  my  eyes  to  its  glories,  nor  entirely  shut  out  its 
hallowing  influences  from  my  heart;  neither  could  I 
enter  into  the  fulness  of  its  delights.  I  was  shut  out,  for 
a  time,  from  the  innermost  of  nature's  sanctuary, —  from 
the  holy  of  holies.  I  love  nature  at  all  seasons ;  and  my 
way  has  never  yet  been  so  utterly  dark  but  that  her 
light  could  scatter  some  of  the  shadows.  There  have 
been  times  when  I  have  turned  away  from  the  faces  of 
men,  but  never  from  the  benignant  face  of  God,  smiling 
from  his  works. 

When  twilight  had  entirely  disappeared,  and  night 
once  more  reigned  over  the  earth,  and  the  tall  trees 
had  daguerreotyped  themselves  upon  the  ground  which 
they  overshadowed,  and  were  looking  down  with  pride 
at  their  forms  of  beauty,  as  they  reposed  in  the 
moonlight,  sad  and  unquiet  at  heart,  and  so  unfitted 
for  such  scenes  of  beauty,  I  took  a  candle  and  book, 
and  retired  to  the  parlor,  to  read.  After  seeking,  in 
vain,  to  fix  my  mind  upon  the  subject  of  the  writer,  I 


360  HELEN  MEANS  AND   MYSELF. 

laid  it  down,  and  leaned  my  head  upon  my  hand,  and 
gave  loose  rein  to  my  burdened  thoughts.  While  thus 
employed,  a  light  step  approached  me.  I  knew  that  it 
was  Helen,  hut  I  did  not  lift  my  head.  She  came  near 
me,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder,  and  said, 

"  This  is  a  beautiful  evening,  Henri !  " 

"  It  is  well  enough,"  I  replied. 

"  Is  that  all?" 

"  As  much  more  as  you  please." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said, 

"Is  it  right  to  spend  such  an  evening  alone,  when 
your  friends  desire  your  company  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  circumstances.  But  I  have  not 
been  alone;  would  to  heaven  I  had !  " 

"  Who  were  your  companions,  then?  " 

"  My  own  thoughts." 

"  They  should  be  pleasant,  as  you  prefer  their  company 
to  any  other." 

"  There  you  mistake,  for  I  am  weary  of  them;  they 
make  me  ever  so  wretched." 

"  Why  harbor  them,  then  ?" 

"  For  a  very  simple  reason  ;  I  cannot  help  it." 

"  May  I  know  what  they  are  ?  " 

"No!"  » 

"Why  not,  Henri?" 

"  Because  I  cannot  tell  you;  and  if  I  could3  I  would 
not ! " 


HELEN  MEANS  AND   MYSELF.  361 

She  seemed  a  little  disconcerted,  and  walked  to  the 
window  a  moment,  and  then  returned  to  my  side  again, 
saying,  ^ 

"  It  is  very  beautiful  to-night; — will  not  the  morning 
he  pleasant?" 

< 'Most  likely.'' 

"  We  used  to  ramble,  once,  at  early  dawn.  Will  you 
walk  with  me  in  the  morning  1 " 

•    "  I  am  not  very  anxious  for  a  walk  myself;  but,  if  you 
particularly  desire  my  company,  I  will  attend  you." 

When  I  uttered  these  words,  she  sighed  deeply ;  and 
I  looked  up,  for  the  first  time  since  she  came  into  the 
room.  She  was  gazing  at  me,  and  a  sad  expression  rested 
upon  her  countenance. 

"  Shall  I  play  and  sing  to  you  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  If  you  wish." 

"  Not  without  you  desire  it." 

"  I  'm  fond  of  music,  you  know." 

"But  not  when  I  make  it." 

"  That's  your  own  inference." 

«  0,  Henri !  " 

"  Say  on." 

She  now  raised  her  hand  and  brushed  away  a  bright 
tear,  lingered  a  moment,  seemingly  making  an  effort  to 
speak ;  she  then  arose  and  opened  the  piano,  swept  her 
fingers  across  the  keys,  and  played  a  beautiful  but 
simple  air,  that  she  had  often  sung  to  me  when  a  child, 
31 


362  HELEN   MEANi  AND   MYSELF. 

She  then  sung,  in  touching  and  thrilling  tones,  the  fol 
lowing  -words : 

Tne  heart  is  cold  that 's  dear  to  me, 

The  heart  I  yearn  to  call  my  own  ; 
For  when  I  touch  the  magic  key, 

It  gives  not  back  an  answering  tone. 

It  turns  away  from  true  love's  shrine, 

While  I  in  sorrow  linger  there,  » 

And  long  to  whisper  "  Make  me  thine," 
But  fear  to  breathe  the  heartfelt  prayer. 

How  well  I  love  the  bending  skies, 

The  dimpled  waves  of  golden  light, 
And  all  the  glad  and  starry  eyes 

That  pierce  the  sombre  veil  of  night ! 

The  hills  and  dales  with  verdure  clad, 
The  brooklets  leaping  through  the  dell, 

The  birds  with  notes  so  full  and  glad, 
Or  soft  as  evening's  vesper-bell ! 

The  leafy  trees,  that  charm  the  eye 

With  worlds  of  gems  at  early  dawn, 
As  though  they  'd  lift  them  to  the  sky, 

To  glitter  when  the  night  comes  on  ! 

The  rivers  winding  to  the  sea, 
The  flowers  that  blush  o'er  all  the  plain, 

'The  zephyrs  whispering  lovingly, 
To  coul  the  throbbing  brow  of  pain  ! 


HELEN  MEANg  AND   MYSELF.  363 

Nature  is  ever  bright  and  fair  ; 

And,  though  I  love  her  passing  well, 
Yet  in  my  heart  are  lines  of  care, 

And  yearnings  that  I  may  not  tell. 

0,  -what  is  all  thejjrorld  to  me 
"Without  the  heart  that  should  be  mine  ? 

But  one  fond  look,  then  trustingly 
I  '11  lay  my  trembling  hand  in  thine  ! 

A  few  lines  were  sufficient  to  call  my  attention  to  the 
thoughts  of  the  singer,  and  to  draakme  to  her  side. 
When  she  had  finished,  she  turned  her  head,  and  fixed 
those  soul-speaking  eyes,  with  all  their  light  and  love, 
full  upon  me.  For  a  moment  I  was  charmed  and  enrap 
tured, —  full  of  great  hope, —  and  then  a  shadowy  cloud 
came  and  stood  between  me  and  the  object  of  my  adora 
tion,  shutting  off  the  light  of  those  truthful  eyes,  which 
I  so  much  needed  to  revive  and  strengthen  my  fainting 
heart.  I  thought  of  the  moments  in  the  past,  when  I 
had  been  so  intoxicated  with  that  thrilling  and  melting 
glance,  that  I  had  almost  worshipped  the  source  from 
whence  it  sprung.  Twice  had  it  caused  me  to  declare 
my  love,  and  earnestly  seek  a  return  of  my  most  devoted 
aifection,  and  each  time  I  had  been  firmly  rejected.  I 
again  thought  she  must  be  a  coquette.  In  my  mind  I 
compared  her  to  the  serpent  that  charms  but  to  destroy. 

When  these  feelings  had  taken  strong  possession  of 
my  heart,  I  left  her  side,  and  seated  myself  upon  the 


364:  HELEN  MEANS  AND   MYSELF. 

sofa  in  moody  silence.  She  seemed  irresolute  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  arose  and  came  and  stood  near  me, 
and  said,  while  a  sweet,  sad  smile  played  around  her 


"  You  think  ill  of  me,  Henri !  " 

"  Helen,"  I  replied,  "  I  despise  an  untruth;  and,  if  I 
did  not,  it  would  be  in  vain  to  deny  what  you  allege,  for 
actions  speak  louder  than  words." 

"Very  true;  for,  had  you  denied  it,  I  should  have 
doubted  even  yom  word.  Now,  Henri,  you  have  one 
duty  to  perform,  which  must  not  be  longer  .delayed ;  you 
must  give  me  your  reasons  for  this." 

"Is  that  my  duty?" 

"Do  you  doubt  it?" 

"I  have  not  given  it  sufficient  thought  to  be  able  to 
tell." 

"  It  does  not  require  thought ;  a  moment's  reflection 
is  sufficient.  Think  of  the  happy  hours  of  the  past, — 
the  relations  which  have  existed  between  us,  and  which 
should  exist  now; — of  what  the  future  may  have  in 
store  for  us,  and  then  answer  to  your  own  conscience  if 
you  should  not  tell  me  all !  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Helen,  since  you  so  much  desire  it. 
You  remember  that  twice  have  I  offered  you  my  heart 
and  hand,  believing,  each  time,  that  you  would  answer 
me  favorably.  When  you  last  rejected  me  I  desired  you 
to  take  time  to  consider,  telling  you  that  I  never  should 


HELEN  MEANS  AND   MYSELF. 


365 


make  you  another  offer.  You  wished  for  no  time,  but 
decided  at  once.  That  I  love  you  deeply,  devotedly,  you 
do  not  doubt.  That  I  ought  to  break  the  cords  that  bind 
me  in  hopeless  love,  is  equally  certain.  And,  though 
I  cannot  sever  a  single  shred,  nor  drive  for  a  moment 
from  my  breast  the  passionate  love  that  is  wearing  me  to 
the  grave,  you  still  keep  up  that  witching  spell  that  first 
charmed  me  into  love,  and  which  draws  the  cords  still 
clo'ser  around  my  heart !  " 

"  If  I  do  as  you  say,  do  you  regard  it  as  done  inten 
tionally?"  4P 

"  I  cannot  doubt  it !  " 

"  And  what  is  your  inference  ?  " 

"  That  yoiyire  a  coquette  !  " 

"  You  shall  know  me  better  !  " 

"  I  would  gladly  do  so  !  " 

c*  You  have  been  very  plain  with  me,  Henri,  and  I 
will  be  equally  plain  with  you.  Although  you  have  re 
garded  me  as  a  coquette,  still  you  have  ever  been  very  dear 
to  me  !  I  have  but  few  friends,  and  those  I  love  most 
dearly  ;  but  you  I  love  more  than  them  all !  You  have 
thought  that  I  could  wantonly  trifle  with  your  holiest 
affections  !  Do  you  think  that  I  would  knowingly  injure 
your  kind  uncle  and  aunt,  who  have  been  more  than 
parents  to  me ;  or  the  good,  dear  Mrs.  Stewart,  who  has 
ever  been  like  a  mother  ?  How,  then,  could  I  wantonly 
injure  you,  when  I  love  you  more  than  they  ?  " 
31* 


366  HELEN   MEANS   AND   MYSELF 

"  Then  I  have  judged  you  wrongly  !  " 

"  And  you  shall  have  still  stronger  proofs.  As  I  have 
twice  rejected  you,  you  may  now  reject  me  ;  but,  if  ever 
I  am  led  to  the  altar,  your  hand  alone  "shall  lead  me  ! 
If  ever  I  give  my  heart  and  hand  to  another,  you  alone 
shall  receive  them  !  " 

"  0,  Helen  !  "  I  replied  to  these  enrapturing  words, 
"  can  you  mean  all  this?  " 

"  Must  I  repeat  it  again,  in  order  to  convince  your 
unbelieving  heart?  " 

"  I  am  satisfied,  dearest !  "  I  answered,  lolding  her  to 
my  breast.  There  was  no  shrinking  away  now, —  no 
half-suppressed  desire  to  tear  herself  from  my  arms. 
That'  long  and  passionate  embrace  was  mmtual,  looking 
love  from  eyes  humid  with  their  burden  of  too  intense 
happiness,  and  breathing  out  deep  sighs, —  for  spoken 
words  would  ha?e  been  but  a  mockery, —  and  uttering 
the  heart's  own  language  in  burning  kisses.  I  cannot 
describe  the  thrilling  rapture  of  that  moment !  Worlds 
of  joy  seemed  to  come  pouring  into  our  hearts,  making 
them  like  heaven  in  the  intensity  of  their  bliss  !  But  I 
must  stop  here,  for  words  are  poor  things  when  used  to 
describe  the  mightier  emotions  of  the  heart,  whether  they 
be  of  joy  or  sorrow.  Perchance  the  reader  will  say  that 
I  should  have  drawn  the  veil  of  silence  over  this  scene, 
rather  than  have  exposed  it  to  the  gaze  of  those  who  can 
not  appreciate  it. 


HELEN   MEANS   AND   MYSELF.  367 

Not  many  minutes  had  passed  away,  before  I  was 
thinking  of  what  might  be  the  real  import  of  the  words 
she  had  uttered,  even  while  I  held  her  heart  beating 
against  my  own.  But  other  thoughts,  beautiful  as  morn 
ing,  sweet  as  the  breath  of  June,  and  brightly  tinted  as 
a  rainbow,  were  stirring  the  long  pent-up  emotions  of  my 
heart ;  and  then  was  no  time  to  talk  or  seek  explanations. 
Lovers  are  never  in  the  possession  of  such  heart-full  hap 
piness  as  when  they  find  no  use  for  words,  ancl  their 
utterance  would  be  like  harsh  discord  in  the  midst  of 
sweet  harmony-.  She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  would  know  more,  Henri  ?  "  she  said. 

"You  have  read  my  thoughts,"  I  replied.  "You 
said  that,  if  ever  you  gave  your  heart  and  hand  to 
another,  I  alone  should  receive  them.  Did  you  mean 
they  should  be  mine  whenever  I  chose  to  claim  them  7  " 

"Yes,  dearest,  they  are  yours  now  and  evermore." 

"  Then  I  am  satisfied,  and  will  query  no  more." 

"  Nay,  but  you  should  query  more  and  now  ;  for  we 
should  understand  each  other,  that  there  may  be  nothing 
to  mar  the  happiness  of  the  future." 

"You  must  explain,  for  I  know  not  to  what  you 
refer." 

"  Is  there  nothing  in  the  past  that  is  dark  or  mys 
terious?  Are  there  no  problems  you  would  have 
solved?" 

Quickly  now  came  rushing  upon  me  the  thought  of  her 


368  HELEN   MEANS   AND   MYSELF. 

twice  refusing  me, —  of  her  intimation  that  she  did  not 
love  me  ;  and  I  felt  that  an  explanation  was  needed. 

"Yes,  there  are,  Helen ;  and  it  is  well,  as  you  say,  that 
.  they  should  be  solved  now.  Tell  me  why  you  twice 
rejected  me,  and  if  you  really  meant  that  you  did  not 
love  me." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  would  be  guilty  of  deception  ?  " 

"  No,  and  that  is  what  puzzles  me." 

* i  I  lywe  thought  that,  if  ever  I  was  guilty  of  falsehood 
ind  deception  in  my  life,  it  was  when  I  gave  you  the 
impression  that  I  did  not  love  you.  But  you  shall  be  my 
judge.  Can  we  truly  say  that  we  love,  unless  we  have 
perfect  confidence  in  the  objects  of  our  affection  ?  Is  it 
love,  in  its  highest  and  holiest  sense,  if  we  are  sometimes 
fearful  that  they  will  not  always  be  true  to  us  ?  " 

"  Under  such  circumstances,  we  could  not  love  with 
that  perfect  love  such  as  you  or  I  should  require." 

"  Then  I  had  not  perfect  love  for  you  ;  for  I  lacked 
confidence  in  the  strength  of  your  attachment." 

"  And  I  alone  was  to  blame  for  that." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  it ;  for  Ms  the  truth. 
When  I  learned  of  your  engagement  to  another,  I  could 
hardly  believe  your  own  words ;  for  I  had  felt  that  our 
destinies  were  so  linked  and  intertwined  that  they  could 
not  be  separated.  You  had  never  breathed  of  love,  but 
still  I  hoped  that  we  understood  each  other.  I  well 
knew  that  I  could  never  love  another  as  I  had  loved  you, 


HELEN  MEANS  AND  MYSELF.  369 

and  I  determined  never  to  marry.  I  had  been  very 
happy,  ever  since  I  was  blessed,  through  your  instrument 
ality,  with  my  present  peaceful  home.  The  loss  of  your 
dear  society  I  deeply  regretted ;  but  I  had  hoped  that  our 
separation  might  be  short.  I  cannot  tell  the  anguish 
which  your  engagement  caused  me,  and  I  would  not 
dwell  upon  it  now.  A  load  of  misery  was  removed  from 
my  heart  when  that  engagement  terminated.  But  soon 
came  the  thought  that  your  attachments  were  weak,  and 
would  not  last.  I  could  not  trust  you,  as  I  had  before ; 
and  I  felt  that  I  did  not  truly  love." 

"  That  is  all  natural  enough ;  but  I  think  the  test  was 
too  severe,  as  I  had  given  up  Irene  entirely  for  you." 

"  You  have  not  yet  learned  all,  and  I  shall  impart  to 
you  the  information  only  on  one  condition." 

"  I  trust  it  is  not  hard." 

1  '  Very  simple.  You  shall  promise  a  full  pardon  to 
all  concerned." 

"  That  is  easily  done.  To-night  I  could  pardon,  with 
all  my  heart,  the  bitterest  enemy  I  have  in  the  world." 

"  You  promise,  then  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  I  will  be  brief  as  I  can.  Your  uncle,  I  think, 
regretted  your  engagement  with  Miss  Dinneford  nearly 
as  much  as  I.  He  was,  as  he  told  me  afterwards,  sadly 
disappointed.  He  had  fondly  hoped  to  see  us  united  in 
holy  wedlock.  When  he  learned  that  you  were  no  longer 


I 
370  HELEN   MEANS  AND    MYSELF. 

betrothed  to  Miss  Dinneford,  he  said  that  you  were  so 
changeable  and  fickle  that  you  could  not  be  trusted.  He 
should  not  be  surprised  if  I  received  an  offer  of  marriage 
•  from  you  ;  but,  knowing  that  I  had  already  suffered  bit 
terly,  and  as  he  loved  me  as  well  as  though  I  was  his 
own  child,  he  wished  me  to  give  you  no  encouragement 
until  there  had  been  sufficient  time  to  test  the  strength  of 
your  attachments.  As  he  had  ever  been  so  kind  to  me. — 
more  IJRan  a  father  to  the  poor  outcast, —  as  I  knew  his 
heart  was  brimming  with  kindness  and  his  head  filled  with 
wisdom,  I  desired  to  be  guided  by  his  wishes, —  to  make 
them,  so  far  as  consistent,  my  law.  I  promised  him  not 
to  give  you  a  favorable  answer  until  I  had  his  permission, 
unless  I  thought  it  a  solemn  duty  to  act  otherwise.  It  was 
not  so  difficult  a  matter  to  make  this  promise  ;  for  I  was 
as  sceptical  as  he.  A  few  days  since,  your  uncle  released 
me  from  my  bond." 

"  The  old  Shylock  !  He  must  have  his  'pound  of 
flesh ! '  " 

"  I  think  he  has  held  on  too  long ;  but  he  meant  well." 

"  But  there  was  an  if.  Why  did  you  not  take  advan 
tage  of  it  ?  I  am  almost  vexed  with  you,  Helen,  that  you 
did  not  do  so  long  ago ;  for  I  gave  you  every  reason  to 
trust  me." 

11  Don't  say  vexed,  Henri.  I  have  been  satisfied  since 
your  return  ;  but  I  was  not  before.  I  was  fearful  that, 
if  easily  won,  I  might  be  easily  cast  aside.  And  your 

- 


HELEN  MEANS  AND  MYSELF.  371 

earnestness,  after  I  had  refused  you,  did  not  change  the 
matter  at  all ;  for  I  knew  that  your  nature  could  not 
brook  a  defeat,  and  that  it  would  not,  if  it  were  possible 
to  prevent  it.     Opposition  to  your  wishes,  I  well  knew,  • 
would  only  stimulate  you  to  greater  exertions.'7 

"  0,  you  little  sceptic  !  I  would  not  have  thought  it." 

11  Well,  you  will  learn  all  about  me,  by  and  by." 

"  I  hope  so;  and  when  you  know  me  better,  there  will 
be  no  more  doubts.  But  how  much  longer  should  you 
have  held  on  to  that  odious  promise?  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  have  felt  it  your  duty  to  have  broken 
it,  when  I  met  you  at  my  home." 

"  I  was  placed  in  a  delicate  position,  for  I  must  be 
the  suitor,  and  not  you ;  and,  besides,  I  wished  your 
good  uncle's  full  approval,  But,  if  he  had  continued 
stubborn  another  week,  I  should  have  felt  it  my  duty  to 
make  known  to  you  that  your  love  was  returned,  and  I 
would  have  done  so." 

"  I  believe,  yea,  I  know>  that  uncle  has  a  kind  heart, 
and  that  his  intentions  were  good  ;  so  I  will  cheerfully 
forgive  him.  But,  like  many  other  well-meaning  but 
mistaken  people,  he  has  caused  much  needless  suffering." 

"  You  spoke  of  doubts  departing  when  I  knew  you 
better ;  they  are  all  gone  now,  never  to  return." 

"  Bless  you  for  those  cheering  "wo^ls,  and  may  Heaven 
grant  that  I  may  be  ever  worthy  of  your  confidence  and 
love  !  " 


372  HELEN   MEANS  AND  MYSELF. 

11  If  we  are  but  faithful  to  the  inner  light,  heaven's 
choicest  blessings  will  be  ours." 

"With  your  love,  dearest,  to  shield  me  when  the 
tempter  comes,  I  believe  that  I  can  conquer,  and  nearly 
all  the  time  be  very  good." 

"  We  may  strengthen  each  other,  I  doubt  not." 

"  And  so  be  brave  and  happy.  0,  Helen!  I  never 
can  be  too  thankful  that  heaven  has  blessed  me  with  your 
dear  love." 

"  And  our  mutual  constancy,  peace  and  joy,  will  best 
manifest  our  gratitude  !  " 

"  Then  I  trust  that  we  may  offer  up  a  perpetual  sacri 
fice.  But,  tell  me  why  you  were  so  decided  in  your 
refusals.  You  acted  as  though  it  was  a  matter  of  per 
fect  indifference  to  you." 

"  The  reason  is  evident.  If  I  had  not  been  decided,  I 
could  not  have  been  faithful  to  my  promise." 

"  I  am  satisfied,  Helen.  I  understand  it  all.  The 
enigmas  are  all  solved ;  and  perhaps  it  is  well  that  we 
have  been  subjected  to  this  trial, — at  least,  I  will  try  and 
think  so.  My  present  happiness  is  abundantly  sufficient 
to  compensate  for  what  I  have  lost  in  the  past.  The 
future,  I  know,  will  be  joyous  as  heaven." 

"  A  perpetual  spring-time,  a  life-long  summer  of  the 
heart!"  *  ' 

"And,  though  we  are  sometimes  visited  with  afflic- 


HELEN   MEANS   AND   MYSELF.  373 

tions,  that  make  sad  for  a  season,  may  they  be  like  'dark- 
eyed  autumn,'  beautiful  even  in  its  sadness  !  " 

"  Bless  you  for  the  thought !  We  must  all  experience 
some  sorrows,  and  meet  with  some  disappointments.  But 
the  faithful  need  not  fear  them,  for  they  shall  only  make 
them  stronger." 

"I  would  that  I  were  as  strong  as  you  are, —  as  free 
from  evil  thoughts  and  evil  passions  !  " 

"  Nay,  I  am  weak,  as  well  as  you ;  but  in  God  shall 

be  our  trust!  " 

32 


CHAPTER   XXVI  . 

WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 

THE  next  morning,  my  uncle,  with  mock  gravity,  con 
gratulated  me  upon  my  improved  appearance  ;  then 
turned  to  Helen,  and  told  her  she  should  have  known 
better  than  to  keep  me  up  so  late,  for  it  was  a  well- 
estahlished  fact  that  invalids  required  more  rest  and 
sleep  than  persons  who  were  free  from  disease.  He 
hoped  she  would  remember  this  in  the  future.  My  aunt, 
the  good  soul,  laughed,  and  said,  "  No  matter  about 
established  facts ; —  if  a  course  of  treatment  produces  good 
results,  and  restores  the  patient,  that  is  enough." 

A  conversation  of  a  more  serious  nature  succeeded  this 
pleasant  raillery.  Uncle  and  aunt  proposed  that  when 
we  were  married  we  should  live  with  them ;  and  they 
would  make  over  the  farm  to  us,  to  be  ours  at  their 
decease.  I  objected,  on  account  of  Mrs.  Stewart ;  but 
they  said  the  house  was  large  enough  for  all,  and 
that  Mrs.  Stewart  should  be  welcome  whenever  she 
wished  to  change  her  home.  We  made  a  conditional 
agreement,  which  might  have  been  carried  into  effect,  had 


WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY.  375 

not  an  event  happened  which  caused  us  to  entirely  change 
our  plan. 

At  the  appointed  time,  Thomas  and  Lizzie  were  mar 
ried.  They  immediately  left  for  their  future  honie. 
Thomas  and  Mr.  Harvey,  the  husband  of  Lizzie,  a 
brother  to  Thomas'  wife,  had  purchased  a  paper-mill  of 
Mr.  Harvey's  father ;  and  they  had  formed  a  partnership 
with  a  Mr.  Vinton,  also  a  brother-in-law,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  manufacturing  paper.  As  I  had  determined  to 
turn  my  attention  to  farming,  it  was  the  desire  of  Thomas 
and  the  rest  of  the  family  that  I  should  retain  the  home 
stead.  Mrs.  Stewart  seemed  anxious  that  I  should  do 
so.  On  the  other  hand,  Helen  was  desirous  that  I 
should  comply  with  uncle's  request,  though  she  was  wil-| 
ling  to  do  as  I  thought  best.  I  was  halting  between  two 
opinions,  when  an  unexpected  development  caused  me  to 
decide. 

We  were  married,  at  my  uncle's,  in  the  following  Novem 
ber.  A  large  number  of  friends  came  to  celebrate  the  happy 
event,  and  to  bless  us  with  their  smiles  and  goSd  wishes. 
Among  the  rest  were  Ernest  and  Irene  Brown ;  or,  as 
she  wrote  her  name,  Irene  Dinneford  Brown.  They 
performed  the  parts  of  bridegroom  and  bridesmaid,  as 
I  had  promised  Ernest  when  he  little  suspected  my 
meaning. 

.    We  returned  with  them  to  New  York,  on  a  marriage 
tour.     We  were  in  the  city,  at  a  hotel,  when  the  start- 


376  WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 

ling  revelation  was  made  which  rendered  our  future 
course  perfectly  clear.  Previous  to  the  development, 
Helen  had  related  to  me  a  somewhat  remarkable  vision, 
or  dream.  She  said  that  a  good  and  benevolent  looking 
man  came  to  her,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  in 
benediction.  His  eyes  were  blue,  and  looked  spiritual 
and  holy,  as  they  were  fixed  upon  her.  A  smile  full 
of  sweetness  and  satisfaction  played  upon  his  benignant 
face. 

He  said,  "  Do  you  remember  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  you,"  she  answered ; 
11 1  saw  you  when  I  was  a  little  child." 

"Who  am  I?" 

*  "My  father!  But  you  have  long  been  dead,  and  I 
had  forgotten  you  !  " 

"I  am  your  father,  my  child  !  And  your  mother, — 
would  you  know  of  her  ?  " 

11  My  mother !  Where  is  she  —  with  the  living  or  the 
dead?" 

"  She  lives,  my  child,  and  mourns  thy  loss  !  Go  and 
comfort  her !  " 

"Mourns  for  me?  0,  tell  me  where  she  is,  that  I 
may  fly  to  her  arms,  and  gladden  her  heart  by  the  sight 
of  her  child!" 

"  Thy  prayer  shall  be  granted  !     Follow  me  !  " 

"  He  led  me  into  the  next  room,  and  pointed  me  to  a 
pale  and  sickly  looking  man,  who  lay,  in  a  disturbed 


I 

WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY.  377 

slumber,  upon  the  bed.  I  looked  at  him  attentively,  and 
I  saw*that  it  "was  the  melancholy  invalid  whom  we  had 
met  at  table,  and  had  seen  going  in  and  out  of  the  next 
room.  He  -who  had  seemed  my  father  said,  '  Be  like  a 
child  to  him,  and  he  shall  direct  thee  to  thy  mother  !  ' 
I  was  about  to  ask  her  name,  when  I  awoke." 

This  dream  made  a  deep  impression  upon  Helen.  She 
said  she  had  often  doubted  whether  those  whom  she 
had  regarded  as  her  parents  were  really  so.  She  never 
recollected  of  having  that  love  which  a  child  should  feel 
for  a  parent.  And  sometimes  dim  and  confused  thoughts 
had  come  crowding  upon  her,  the  cause  of  which  she  had 
sought  for  in  vain.  They  ever  ran  upon  one  subject, — 
a  country  home,  and  a  lady  who  seemed  very  near  and 
dear  to  her.  I  tried  to  persuade  her  that  it  was  because 
her  parents  had  not  treated  her  kindly ;  and,  after  placing 
her  at  Deacon  Webber's,  had  apparently  forgotten  her. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  she  said;  "for  when  I  awoke 
from  my  dream  I  immediately  travelled  back  in  thought 
to  the  time  when  I  was  a  little  child,  before  I  lived 
with  Mr.  Means;  and  I  then  lived  with  a  dear,  good 
woman,  who  was  my  mother.  I  am  sure  that  it  was  in 
the  country;  I  can  see  the  spot  now.  And,  unless  I 
have  had  a  previous  existence,  according  to  the  faith  of 
some,  and  had  such  a  home  then,  it  was  my  home  in  my 
early  childhood ! " 

32*  * 


378  WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 

"Well,  Helen,"  I  replied,  "as  we  are  to  start  for 
home  to-day,  what  can  you  do  for  the  sick  man  ?  " 

"  We  must  not  go  to-day ;  I  dare  not !  Do  stay  one 
day  more  !  " 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say  ;  and  a  week,  if  you  wish." 

In  the  afternoon  the  sick  man  was  taken  bleeding  at 
the  lungs.  The  hemorrhage  was  so  severe  that  a  phy 
sician  who  was  called  said  he  could  not  live  but  a  few  days, 
at  most.  I  knew  that  he  was  a  stranger,  and  I  readily 
assented  to  Helen's  request,  that  she  should  be  his  nurse. 
She  attended  him  with  all  the  faithfulness  of  a  wife  or 
daughter,  and  his  gratitude  was  unbounded.  Three  days 
after  the  hemorrhage  had  been  checked,  and,  as  he  had 
recovered  somewhat  from  the  exhaustion  which  it  caused, 
he  expressed  a  desire  to  see  me  alone.  With  my  curi 
osity  very  much  excited,  I  obeyed  the  summons. 

I  found  him  propped  up  with  pillows,  and  looking  pale 
and  ghastly.  He  addressed  me  thus  : 

"  I  have  learned,  from  your  inestimable  lady,  that 

your  name  is  Henri  Eaton,  and  that  you  are  from , 

Mass." 

I  nodded  assent. 

"  I  feel,"  he  continued,  "  that  I  have  not  long  to  live; 
and  I  wish  to  confide  a  sacred  trust  to  you.  Are  you 
willing  to  accept  it  ?  " 

"I  am." 

"My  nanrc  is  Edgar  Austin.     I  have  neither  father, 


WONDERFUL  DISCOVERY.  379 

mother,  brother,  sister,  wife  or  child,  living.  "You  see  I 
am  alone  in  the  world ;  and,  therefore,  I  doubly  appre 
ciate  the  kindness  which  you  and  your  lady  have  shown 
me.  I  once  had  a  brother.  He  was  older  than  I,  and 
of  an  overbearing,  jealous  disposition.  He  was  passion 
ate  and  unforgiving.  Such  was  his  treatment  of  me, 
that  I  had  but  little  love  for  him,  and  seldom  visited 
him.  Some  fifteen  years  since,  as  I  had  not  seen  him 
for  four  years,  and  as  he  had  married  in  the  time,  I  re 
solved  to  pay  him  a  visit.  Not  knowing  what  the  recep 
tion  might  be, —  for  we  had  parted  in  anger, —  I  left  my 
horse  at  the  tavern,  about  a  mile  from  my  brother's,  and 
went  the  rest  of  the  way  on  foot.  In  order  to  shorten 
the  distance,  I  concluded  to  leave  the  road,  and  pass 
through  a  piece  of  woodland  near  my  brother's  house.  I 
had  gone  about  half-way  through,  when  I  discovered,  a 
few  rods  from  me,  a  man  and  a  little  girl.  I  stopped,  to 
learn  if  the  man  was  not  my  brother.  In  a  moment  I 
was  satisfied  that  it  was  he ;  but  judge  of  my  surprise 
and  horror,  to  see  him  pick  up  a  stone,  .and  strike  the 
little  girl  upon  the  head,  which  laid  her  bleeding  at  his 
feet !  The  monster  then  knelt  down  to  see  if  she  breathed, 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  heart,  and  felt  of  her  pulse.  He 
then  threw  her  into  a  hole  some  three  feet  deep,  which 
had  the  appearance  of  having  been  dug  some  months 
before.  He  now  set  to  work  gathering  leaves,  and  pieces 
of  rotten  wood,  which  he  threw  on  to  her. 


WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 


"  So  astounded  was  I  to  behold  him  commit  such  an 
atrocious  deed,  that  the  moment  he  struck  the  blow  I 
•was  half  paralyzed,  so  that  I  did  not  move.  Bat.  had 
he  offered  to  strike  her  again,  I  think  I  should  have 
thrown  off  my  paralysis,  and  rushed  to  her  rescue.  But 
a  moment's  reflection  taught  me  that  to  keep  still  would 
be  the  surest  way  to  save  the  child.  I  knew  that,  if  1 
met  my  brother  then,  a  deadly  encounter  would  be  the 
result ;  and,  as  he  was  much  the  stronger,  I  was  fearful 
that  I  should  be  overcome,  and  to  save  himself  he  would 
take  my  life. 

"  When  the  wretch  had  completely  covered  her  over, 
he  ran,  with  great  speed,  towards  his  house.  When  I 
could  no  longer  hear  the  sound  of  his  heavy  footsteps,  I 
lost  not  a  moment  in  hastening  to  where  the  child  lay, 
and  removing  the  rubbish  that  covered  her.  Poor  little 
thing  !  how  still  she  lay,  and  how  pale  and  bloody  she 
was  !  for  the  blood  was  still  running  from  the  deep  gash 
upon  her  head. 

"Having  travelled  much,  and  been  an  invalid  for 
years,  I  had  paid  some  attention  to  medicine,  and  never 
went  any  distance  without  carrying  some  with  me.  I 
had  some  drops  in  my  pocket,  which  I  applied  to  her 
nose  and  mouth.  While  thus  employed  I  heard  foot 
steps,  and  I  rightly  surmised  that  the  murderer  was 
returning.  As  quick  as  thought  I  snatched  her  up,  and 
darted  into  some  thick  bushes  near  by,  resolved  to  fight 


WONDERFUL,  DISCO  VERT.  381 

the  monster,  if  he  discovered  me.  It  was  a  relief  to  see 
him  commence  throwing  in  the  loose  gravel, —  for  he 
brought  a  spade  with  him, —  without  looking  into  the 
grave.  In  a  brief  space  he  filled  up  the  hole,  then  lev 
elled  it  down,  and  trod  upon  it  with  his  feet.  He  then 
brought  leaves,  and  decayed  vegetable  matter,  and  spread 
upon  the  spot,  making  the  ground  to  look  as  though  it 
had  not  lately  been  stirred.  During  this  time,  although 
he  worked  in  grear  haste,  he  would  frequently  stop 
and  listen,  and,  with  a  half- frightened  look,  gaze  in 
every  direction,  as  though  he  was  fearful  some  one  was 
approaching.  When,  as  he  thought,  he  had  fully  accom 
plished  his  diabolical  purpose,  he  returned  home. 

"  I  was  now  determined  to  re^wre  the  child  to  life,  if 
possible.  I  poured  the  drops  intoner  mouth,  chafed  her 
hands,  face  and  stomach,  and  used  every  means  in  my 
power  to  restore  her.  In  a  brief  period  I  was  repaid  a 
thousand  times,  by  beholding  signs  of  returning  anima 
tion.  She  soon  began  to  moan  piteously  ;  but,  removing 
her  still  further  from  the  hated  spot,  and  from  the  house 
of  my  brother,  lest  he  might  hear  her,  I  laid  her  down 
by  the  side  of  a  little  creek,  and  washed  the  blood  from 
her  head  and  face,  and  tied  up  the  wound  with  my  hand 
kerchief.  I  then  soothed  her  to  skep.  It  was  now 
quite  dark ;  and  I  took  her  in  my  arms,  and  carried  her 
beyond  the  hotel,  and  laid  her  down  in  a  field,  near  the 
road.  I  then  hastily  returned  for  my  horse,  rode  to 


382  WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 

where  I  had. Jeft  the  child,  took  her  in,  and  drove  rapidly 
away. 

"i  now  began  to  ask  myself,  seriously,  what  I  should 
do  with*  the  child.  Some  fifteen  miles  from  where  I 
then  was  lived  a  surgeon,  with  whom  I  was  intimately 
acquainted.  I  resolved  to  drive  to  his  house  with  all 
speed ;  for  I  thought  the  wound  should  be  dressed  with 
as  little  delay  as  possible.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  find 
him  at  home.  I  told  him  that  I  %ad  a  little  girl  with 
me  who  had  fallen  out  of  the  chaise  and  hurt  her  head 
badly,  but  I  hoped  not  fatally.  He  examined  her  wound, 
and  dressed  it,  and  said  there  was  no  danger  if  it  was 
properly  attended  to.  I  remained  there  three  days, 
when,  with  his  consent^  carried  the  little  girl  to  Boston, 
and,  in  a  short  time,  ner  wound  was  perfectly  healed. 

"  It  was  my  desire,  now,  to  restore  the  child  to  her 
parents,  if  I  could  find  them ;  but  I  did  not  wish  to  en 
danger  the  life  and  liberty  of  my  brother,  for  I  feared 
the  disgrace.  It  might  be  possible  that  she  had  lived 
with  him,  he  having  taken  her  from  the  poor-house,  or 
from  some  destitute  family ;  or,  perchance,  she  was  a  child 
of  shame,  and,  possibly,  his  own.  I  met  with  one  diffi 
culty  which  I  had  not  anticipated.  When  I  asked  the 
little  girl  her  name,  she  could  not  tell  me.  She  seemed 
to  try  to  think,  but,  after  a  while,  burst  into  tears.  The 
blow  upon  her  head  had  affected  her  memory.  I  then 
resolved  to  visit  the  neighborhood  where  my  brother 


WONDERFUL  DISCOVERY.  383 

resided,  and,  if  any  little  child  was  missing,  restore  her 
to  the  parents,  and  invent  some  story  in  relation  to  her, 
so  as  to  shield  myself  and  brother.  But,  as  I  wa£  about 
to  start  on  a  foreign  tour,  and  the  ship  being  unexpectedly 
ready  to  sail,  I  could  not  go  without  much  inconvenience 
and  expense.  I  then  procured  a  place  for  her  with  a 
poor  family,  where  she  could  board  cheap ;  and,  paying  for 
her  board  for  one  year,  set  sail  for  Liverpool.  It  so 
happened  that  business  detained  me  a  number  of  years ; 
but  I  continued  to  make  remittances,  from  year  to  year, 
for  the  support  of  the  child,  until  I  returned  to  Boston. 
When  I  did  return,  the  family  was  not  to  be  found,  and 
I  have  sought  in  vain  to  trace  them. 

"  I  now  feel  that  it  was  an  unpardonable  offence  ia 
consenting  to  leave  Boston,  on  any  consideration,  without 
making  an  effort  to  find  her  parents.  You  live  in  the 
town  adjoining  where  my  brother  resided.  I  am  ex 
tremely  anxious  that  the  girl,  if  living,  should  be  found. 
I  have  property  to  the  amount  of  seven  thousand  five 
hundred  dollars,  which  I  shall  give  to  her.  The  whole 
business  I  must  intrust  in  your  hands,  and  I  will  make 
ample  provision  for  your  trouble  and  expense.  Five  hun 
dred  dollars  out  of  my  estate  I  have  reserved  for  that  pur 
pose,  with  a  provision  in  the  will  that  more  shall  be  used, 
if  required.  You  must  first  learn  who  were  her  parents, 
and  then  advertise  for  her  until  you  find  her.  I  should 
have  done  it,  ere  now,  but  one  of  my  most  fatal  propensities 


384  WONDERFUL  DISCOVERY. 

.  was  to  put  off  sacred  duties  to  a  more  convenient  season. 
By  giving  way  to  this  fueling,  I  have  lost  many  opportu 
nities  of  doing  good,  and  have  left  a  burden  upon  my  own 
heart  which  now  I  am  little  able  to  bear.  My  brother  is 
dead,  and  I  have  never  been  to  the  town  where  he  lived 
since  I  learned  that  in  his  heart  he  was  a  murderer !  " 

"  Your  story,"  I  remarked,  "  is  a  strange  one,"  hardly 
able  to  suppress  my  agitation.  "  Did  you  give  the  child 
a  name?" 

"  No,  for  I  thought  that  in  a  short  time  her  memory 
might  be  restored  to  her ;  and  I  left  orders  that,  if  she 
ever  told  her  name,  search  should  be  made  for  her 
parents,  and  she  restored  to  them.  But  Means  was  a 
poor,  shiftless  fellow." 

"  Means,  did  you  say?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  name  of  the  family  where  I  placed 
her  to  board.". 

"  It  is  she  !  "  I  exclaimed,  without  being  aware  that  I 
was  thinking  aloud.  "It  is  my  Helen !  God  be 
thanked !  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  he  inquired,  raising 
his  head,  quickly.  "Of  whom  do  you  speak?  What 
Helen  do  you  refer  to  ?  " 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  sir,"  I  replied,  far  from 
being  in  that  state  myself.  "  I  have  good  reasons  for 
believing  that  the  lost  child  and  my  wife  are  the  same." 


WONDERFUL   DISCGVpRY.  385 


"Impossible!  What  proof  have  you,  sir?  ll'or  God's 
sake  tell  me!  :' 

"I  beg  of  you  to  be  calm,  or  I  cannot  proceed.  Too 
much  excitement  may  cause  death  immediately." 

"  Well,  you  are  right.  I  will  be  calm  *  only  give  me 
the  proof,  which  you  should  have,  before  making  such  a 
statement  to  a  dying  man.  Unless  you  give  me  such 
proof,  I  shall  believe  you  a  villain,  seeking,  by  false  pre 
tensions,  to  get  into  your  possession  the  property  I  have 
given  to  another." 

'  '  You  are  suspicious  of  me,  sir  ;  but  I  pardon  you. 
Listen  patiently,  and  you  shall  know  all." 

I  gave  him  a  clear,  simple  and  distinct  account  of  all 
the  facts  in  the  case.  These  facts  the  reader  is  already 
acquainted  with,  but  I  will  briefly  allude  to  them.  Mrs. 
Stewart  lived  near  the  brother  of  the  sick  man,  and  her 
little  girl  mysteriously  disappeared  ;  and,  a  few  months 
afterwards,  this  brother  confessed  that  he  was  her  mur- 
<}erer.  Helen  Means  had  lived  in  Boston,  with  her 
parents,  as  she  supposed,  previous  to  living  with  Deacon 
Webber.  The  night  on  which  Helen  came  to  my  moth 
er's,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  my  clothes,  Mrs.  Stewart  was 
much  agitated  when  Helen  gave  her  a  grateful  look  for 
the  kind  words  she  had  spoken  to  her.  Once  or  twice 
afterwards  the  same  thing  had  occurred.  Many  doubts 
had  crept  into  the  mind  of  Helen  in  relation  to  her 
parents,  and  her  thoughts  went  beyond  her  home  in  Bos- 
83 


386  WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 

ton,  to  a  pleasant  little  home  in  the  country.  Mr.  Aus 
tin,  our  sick  friend,  saw  his  brother  strike  the  child,  and 
throw  her  into  a  hole  intended  for  her  grave.  But  he 
saved  her,  restored  her  to  life,  and  placed  her  to  board 
with  a  family  by  the  name  of  Means.  With  this  chain 
of  facts  there  was  no  room  for  doubt.  When  I  had 
finished,  he  exclaimed, 

"  God  be  praised  !  The  proof  is  as  clear  as  light. 
Now  I  can  die  in  peace.  The  mother  will  again  embrace 
her  long-lost  child,  and  my  property  will  be  amply  suf 
ficient  to  make  her  old  age  cheerful ;  and  I  shall  atone, 
in  a  measure,  for  the  wrong  I  have  done." 

"  You  must  remember,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  saved 
the  life  of  the  noble  being  who  is  now  my  wife." 

"I  do  Remember  it;  but  I  only  did  my  duty,  and 
that  does  not  justify  my  neglect  of  duty  afterwards." 

"  It  will  be  well  to  let  that  pass  out  of  your  mind.  We 
all  owe  you  very  much.  Helen  was  restored  to  life  by 
you,  and  she  is  unconsciously  doing  something  to  repay 
the  debt  she  owes  you,  by  smoothing  your  way  to  the 
tomb." 

"  She  has  been  very  kind,  and  it  brings  consola 
tion  to  my  heart ;  for  it  seems  as  though  God  had  sent  her 
to  me  to  solace  my  last  hours,  and  assure  me  of  forgive 
ness." 

"  A  beautiful  thought,  and  I  am  glad  that  it  has  come 


WONDERFUL  DISCOVERY.  387 

to  you  ;  for  it  will  do  you  good.  She  Ynust  seem  like  a 
dear  child  to  you." 

"  You  are  very  good.  I  do  not  doubt  what  you  have 
told  me,  sir ;  but  I  wish  to  see  your  wife  alone." 

In  accordance  with  his  wishes,  I  rang  for  Helen,  and 
when  she  came  I  left  the  room.  I  was  recalled  in  the 
course  of  half  an  hour.  I  found  Helen's  face  streaming 
with  tears,  and  yet  its  expression  was  the  most  thankful, 
heavenly  and  beautiful,  that  I  ever  witnessed.  It  seemed 
like  a  transfiguration,  it  was  so  glorious.  The  sick  man 
gazed  upon  her  as  though  she  had  been  an  angel  sent 
from  heaven  to  guide  him  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death. 

Helen  rejoiced  to  learn  that  Mrs.  Stewart  was  her 
mother,  for  she  knew  that  the  knowledge  of  the  fact 
would  be  heaven  to  her ;  and  then  she  loved  her  so  well, 
and  could  now  love  her  still  more  dearly.  She  was  thank 
ful  that  it  had  been  so  ordered  that  she  should  be  with 
her  preserver  in  his  last  hours,  to  hear  the  truth  from 
his  own  lips,  and  smooth,  with  loving  hands,  the  bed  of 
sickness  and  death.  She  wept  that  she  must  part  with 
him  so  soon,  but  they  were  tears  of  reconciliation. 

It  was  beautiful  to  witness  the  mutual  faith  and  trust 
which  were  now  manifested.  He  called  her  his  child  — 
his  dear  child  —  and  wanted  her  ever  near  him.  She 
anticipated  every  want,  and  held  him  by  the  hand,  -and 


388          ,  WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 

gently  chafed  his  forehead,  and  addressed  to  him  words 
of  affection  and  filial  endearment. 

"  Shall  I  bathe  your  head,  father?  "  she  would  ask. 

"Yes,  dear  child,"  would  be  the  reply. 

And  so  it  was,  all  day  long,  and  all  night  long, 
except  when  he  slept,  or  she  absented  herself  for  a  brief 
repose. 

After  lingering  for  a  few  days,  he  slept  the  sleep  of 
death,  closing  his  eyes  in  holy  calmness,  and  bidding  us 
an  affectionate  farewell. 

"  0,  Lelia  !  "  said  he;  "  sweet  and  angelic  has  been 
your  care  for  me,  and  on  the  wings  of  your  beautiful  and 
heavenly  love  shall  my  soul  be  lifted  to  God!  " 

At  our  request,  the  families  of  Mr.  Dinneford  ancf  Mr. 
Brown  united  with  us  in  the  last  sad  offices  of  respect 
and  love.  We  followed  him  to  his  grave,  and  stood  over 
it  and  wept ;  and  when  we  retraced  our  steps  there  were 
tears  in  our  eyes,  but  smiles  in  our  hearts. 

We  remained  in  New  York  a  few  days  longer,  keeping 
perfectly  quiet,  that  Helen  might  recruit  her  wasted 
energies  ;  and  then,  with  chastened  feelings  and  a  larger 
faith,  we  started  for  home. 

Mrs.  Stewart  received  us  with  the  most  endearing  affec 
tion  ;  and,  after  embracing  us  both,  she  said, 

"  I  hope,  my  dear  children,  that  you  have  now 
decided  to  make  this  your  home." 

"Yes,  dear  mother,"    I  answered,  "we  have.     We 


WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 


shall  gladly  live  with  you,  and  beautiful  shall  be  your 
life  with  us." 

I  uttered  these  words  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  and 
Helen  trembled  like  a  leaf,  and  she  leaned  heavily  upon 
me  for  support,  and  the  tears  fell  rapidly  which  she 
struggled  in  vain  to  suppress.  She  would  have  sprang 
into  her  mother's  arms,  but  I  gently  restrained  her. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  boy;  and  is  Helen  willing 
to  live  here  with  me  1  She  is  weeping  ;  —  is  it  for  joy 
or  grief?" 

"  For  joy  !  — only  for  joy  ;  for  our  Lelia  is  very  "glad 
to  have  such  a  sweet,  sweet  home  as  this." 

"  Lelia  !  Lelia !  0,  gracious  Father  !  But  you 
made  a  mistake,  Henri,  for  Lelia  is  in  heaven." 

I  could  restrain  her  no  longer.  She  sprang  from  my 
arms,  and  folded  her  mother  to  her  heart,  exclaiming, 

"  Mother  !  my  own  mother !  Your  child  !  Your  own 
child  !  —  Your  own  lost  Lelia  !  " 

Mrs.  Stewart  clasped  her  arms  around  her  child,  and 
held  her  tightly  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  hands 
dropped,  her  face  grew  white  as  death,  and  she  would 
have  fallen,  if  I  had  not  caught  her  in  my  arms ;  for 
Helen  was  too  much  weakened  by  the  feelings  and 
emotions  which  shook  her  frame  like  a  reed. 

In  a  brief  period,  by  the  application  of  proper  remedies, 
she  was  restored  to  consciousness.  Helen  was  bending 
over  her  when  she  opened  her  eyes.  As  weak  as  she 
33* 


390  WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY. 

was,  she  flung  her  arms  around  her  neck,  and  kissed  her 
passionately,  exclaiming, 

"  You  are  my  Lelia  !  I  know  you  are  !  But,  how  can 
it  be  ?  But  those  eyes  !  hair  !  expression  !  God  be 
praised  !  0,  my  child  !  what  a  world  of  happiness  you 
bring  to  this  long  desolate  heart !  Henri,  my  son,  come 
and  tell  me  all, —  tell  me  how  you  learned  that  Helen 
Means  was  my  own  dear  child  !  " 

I  gladly  complied  with  her   request ;  and  when  I  had 
finished  the  strange  narrative,  she  said,  "It  must  be  so! 
The  lost  is  found !     The  dead  is  alive  again  !     God  bless 
you,   my  dear  children  !     What  moments,   hours,  days 
and  years  of  suffering,  have  I  endured  !     But  this  hour 
repays  it  all.     With  my  own  dear  ones  shall  I  pass  tri 
umphantly  and  hopefully  to  my  grave  !  " 

"  You  may  expect  to  see  many  happy  years  ere  that 
sad  hour  shall  come,"  I  remarked. 

II  Blessed  years,  with  your  children  to  comfort  you, 
my  mother,"  said  Helen. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  most  blessed.  I  have  ever  loved  you  both, 
but  I  knew  not  how  near  and  dear  you  would  one  day 
become.  But  this  is  too  much  joy  for  me.  I  would 
share  it  with  all  the  world,  and  then  my  heart  would  be 
full.  Send  for  all  of  our  friends,  and  let  us  rejoice 
together." 

In  accordance  with  her  suggestion,  we  sent  invita 
tions  to  all  of  our  relatives  and  friends.  They  came, — 


WONDERFUL   DISCOVERY.  391 

our  brothers  and  sisters,  uncles  and  aunts,  friends  and 
neighbors.  After  we  had  partaken  of  a  sumptuous  din 
ner,  I  gave  them  the  strange  narrative.  When  I  had 
concluded,  surprise  and  wonder  were  depicted  upon  every 
countenance.  Expressions  like  these  were  heard :  "  Won 
derful  !  "  "  A  miracle  !  "  "  Stranger  than  fiction  !  " 
1  c  If  the  proof  were  not  so  positive.  I  could  not  believe  it ! " 
Then  followed  showers  of  congratulations,  and  a  spirit  of 
subdued  joy  beamed  from  every  face.  We  were  all 
happy,  and  the  faint  light  in  the  east  showed  that  another 
day  was  about  to  dawn  upon  the  world  ere  our  guests 
had  retired  or  departed  for  their  homes. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE   WEBBER  FAMILY. 

A  DECIDED  sensation  was  produced  in  our  little  coun 
try  town  when  it  became  known  that  my  beautiful  and 
accomplished  bride  was  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Stewart, 
and  that  she  was  the  little  pale-faced,  ragged  child,  who 
once  lived  with  Deacon  Webber.  These  two  facts  would 
have  furnished  abundant  material  for  conversation ;  but, 
adding  to  them  the  other  facts,  it  seemed  so  much  like  a 
highly-wrought  romance,  that  the  story  was  in  every 
body's  mouth.  The  day  after  our  happy  gathering  of 
friends,  Mr.  Edgarton  went  to  visit  the  Webbers.  When 
he  returned,  he  came  in  to  inform  us  of  the  result.  It 
was  just  after  dinner.  His  face  was  very  red,  and  there 
was  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  little  round  eyes. 

"I  have  been  to  see  them,"  said  Mr.  Edgarton. 

"  Been  to  see  who  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  The  pious  ones,  to  be  sure,"  he  replied,  laughing. 

Uncle  Eaton  joined  in  the  laugh,  and  said, 

"  You  old  rogue  you !  —  I  know  where  you.have  been." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !     0,  what  a  face  he  did  make  up  !  " 


THE   WEBBER  FAMILY. 

"Why,  who  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Edgarton?"  asked 
Mrs.  Stewart. 

"The  deacon,  to  be  sure, —  who  else  could  it  be?  I 
went  right  away,  after  breakfast,  to  tell  him  the  news." 

"  What !  —  Deacon  Webber  ?  " 

"Yes,  Deacon  Webber,  and  the  rest  of  'em  too." 

"  Just  to  vex  and  irritate  them,  I  suppose,"  remarked 
Lelia.  "  That  is  not  exactly  right,  Mr.  Edgarton." 

'•'Yes  'tis,  too;  I  wanted  to  see  the  old  gentleman 
grin, —  and  I  did." 

"  Rejoice  not  over  an  enemy,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart. 

"  He  deserves  it,  and  more  too.  If  he  don't  get  some 
of  his  punishment  in  this  world,  he  will  have  more  than 
he  can  manage  in  the  next." 

fc  If  he  gets  all  he  deserves,"  said  I. 

"  He  who  lives  a  false  life,  false  to  his  God  and  false 
to  his  race,  suffers  every  day;  his  whole  life  is  a  hell," 
said  my  uncle. 

"Right  again,"  said  Mr,  Edgarton.  "I  hope  the 
deacon  won't  find  any  worse  hell  than  he  has  already 
made  for  himself." 

"  A  benevolent  wish,"  said  Uncle  Eaton,  "  and  we 
can  all  unite  in  it.  But  let  us  have  your  story." 

"  I  went,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Mr.  Edgarton,  "to 
see  Hezekiah  Webber.  I  found  him  mending  his  old 
boots.  He  sat  on  his  bench,  smoking,  an  exact  picture 
of  his  father  twenty  years  ago.  Such  a  looking  house 


394  THE   WEBBER   FAMILY. 

you  never  laid  your  eyes  on,  and  such  a  looking  woman 
and  children.  The  condition  of  the  house  was  utterly 
indescribable, —  dirt  and  confusion.'7 

"  She  is  good-natured,  of  course,"  remarked  my  uncle. 

"A  regular  termagant!     I  pity  the  children.     And 
Hezekiah  has  his  match.     I  told  the  news,  and  left  them 
spitting  fire  at  each  other." 
•'"How  was  that?"  said  I. 

"When  I  told  Hezekiah  that  your  wife  was  the  little 
girl  that  used  to  live  with  his  father,  and  that  she  was 
the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Stewart,  his  wife  said  that  she  had 
heard  of  that  little  girl,  and  how  they  all  abused  her ; 
and  it  was  just  like  the  Webbers,  for  they  treated  every 
body  like  savages.  Hezekiah  was  mad  in  a  minute,  and 
when  I  left  them  they  were  calling  each  other  all  sorts 
of  appropriate  names." 

"  You  had  better  not  have  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart. 

"  They  are  used  to  it, —  so  it  won't  hurt  them  any. 
After  I  left  this  interesting  couple,  I  went  to  pay  Job 
a  visit ;  who,  you  know,  was  married  a  few  weeks  since. 
I  there  found  she  that  was  Hannah  Webber.  I  suppose 
you  have  not  heard  the  news  about  her  ?  Her  husband, 
who  was  a  decent  sort  of  a  man  when  he  married  her, 
took  himself  off  very  suddenly  a  few  days  since,  and 
about  the  same  time  Rose  Webber  was  off  too." 

"  Worse,  and  worse,"  I  remarked. 


THE   WEBBER   FAMILY.  895 

"  Just  so.  Job  is  the  most  decent  one  of  the  lot,  and 
I  suppose  he  may  thank  you  for  that." 

"How  so?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,  didn't  you  beat  it  into  him?    Ha,  ha,  ha!  " 

"  I  believe  I  left  my  mark  on  him." 

"  So  you  did,  so  you  did  !  0,  you  are  a  smart  one, 
only  get  you  fairly  started  !  Well,  Job  is  none  too  good, 
but  he  '11  do.  He  went  out  of  town,  and  was  gone  a 
year  or  two,  and  it  improved  him  amazingly ;  and  the 
wife  he  brought  t>aak  with  him  is  quite  a  woman." 

"  Then  you  should  not  have  gone  there,"  said  Lelia. 

"  But  I  wanted  to  see  her;  and  what 's  the  good  of 
being  partial  ?  I  told  them  the  story,  and  Hannah  looked 
anything  but  comfortable ;  and  when  I  had  finished  she 
said,  '  I  hope  he  will  get  enough  of  her,  for  she  was  a 
little,  ugly,  dirty  thing.' 

"  To  my  great  surprise,  Job  said  it  was  false,  and  that 
when  she  lived  with  his  father  they  all  abused  her,  from 
the  oldest  to  the  youngest,  excepting  his  mother. 

"  CI  am  glad  to  hear  you  confess  the  truth,'  said  his 
wife.  * 

"At  this,  Hannah  caught  her  bonnet,  and,  calling 
them  both  fools,  bolted  out  of  the  house,  and  went 
straight  to  see  her  darling  brother  Hezekiah. 

"  After  she  had  gone,  Job  and  his  wife  asked  me 
many  questions  about  you,  which  I  answered  as  well  as 
I  could.  We  spoke  of  the  knocking  down  scrape,  and 


396  THE   WEBBER   FAMILY. 

he  said  he  did  not  blame  you  at  all.  I  then  called  on 
the  deacon.  I  went  in  rather  suddenly,  and  I  found 
him  bending  over  a  pile  of  gold.  I  suppose  he  had  been 
counting  it.  He  said  he  wished  people  would  rap  when 
they  came  in." 

"  How  did  he  look  ?  "  inquired  my  uncle. 

"Worse  than  a  beast!  His  face  and  hands  were 
black  with  dirt  and  filth.  His  face  and  head  have  not 
cultivated  the  acquaintance  of  a  razor  or  comb  for  a  long 
time.  I  '11  warrant  you." 

"  Was  he  decently  clothed  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stewart. 

11  About  as  well  as  he  used  to  clothe  your  daughter, 
—  not  a  whit  better.  But  the  room  in  which  he  stays  is 
worse  than  all  the  rest.  I  was  glad  to  get  out,  and 
breathe  the  fresh  air  again." 

"  You  did  your  errand  first,  did  you  not?"  said  my 
uncle. 

"  Certainly,  certainly !  I  said,  l  Deacon,  I  have  got 
some  news.' 

"  '  What  do  I  care  ? '  he  growled. 

"  '  You  «ay  care  a  good  deal,  after  you  know  what 
it  is.' 

"  'After  I  hear  it,  I  can  tell  better;  so  out  with  it, 
and  don't  keep  me  waiting,  old  soap-tub  !  for  my  time  is 
precious.' ' 

t  When  Mr.  Edgarton  told  this,  he  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh,  in  which  we  all  joined. 


THE  WEBBER  FAMILY.  397 

"  A  pretty  good  joke,"  said  my  uncle. 

"  Very  good,  very  good  !  The  deacon  would  like  to 
boil  me  up  and  make  me  into  soap,  I  don't  doubt.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  he  had  formed  a  pretty  correct 
estimate  of  what  the  soap  would  bring  !  " 

I  suggested  to  Mr.  Edgarton  that  he  would  make  a 
large  quantity. 

"  So  I  should,"  he  said.  "  Ha,  ha !  a  very  large 
quantity  !  But  to  return  to  my  visit.  '  You  remember 
Henri  Eaton,  deacon  ?  '  I  remarked. 

"  He  looked  up  fiercely  and  said, 

"  '  The  villain  !  —  what  of  him  ?  ' 

"  '  He  is  married,  deacon.' 

"  c  What's  that  to  me 7'  + 

"  *  Nothing  in  particular, —  only  he  has  married  that 
little  girl  he  enticed  away  from  you ;  and  she  is  very 
rich,  too ! ' 

"  '  Gods  ! '  he  said,  '  I  wish  I  had  them  in  my  power. 
I  'd  make  them  feel  my  wrath  ! ' 

"  I  continued.  l  She  is  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Stewart, 
and  a  gentleman  has  left  them  thousands !  ' 

"  '  How  much  ? '  he  inquired,  eagerly. 

"  {  Thousands  upon  thousands  !  '  I  replied. 

"  'I'll  have  it,  if  there  is  any  law  and  justice  in  the 

land ! '  he  said,  grinding  his  teeth,  and  looking  wild  and 

fierce.     '  She  ran  away  from  me,  and  he  helped  her  — 

it  was  a  great  loss.-   I  lost  eight  years  labor,  and  I'll 

34 


398  THE   WEBBER   FAMILY. 

have  the  worth  in  gold,  in  bright  yellow  gold,  and  the 
interest.' 

"  '  The  property  was  willed  to  her,  you  know.' 

"  '  I  don't  care  if  it  was,  —  I  will  have  it !  It  would  have 
been  all  mine,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  bloody  villain, 
that  robber.  0.  I  should  like  to  tear  out  his  eyes  !  I  '11 
break  the  will,  for  she  is  not  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Stewart.  I  can  prove  that  she  is  Means'  child.' 

"  I  then  went  on  to  tell  him  the  whole  story,  when  he 
growled  and  raved  still  more.  He  ordered  me  out  of  the 
house ;  and,  not  wishing  to  stay  any  longer,  I  came 
away." 

11  He  is  a  beautiful  character,"  I  remarked. 

"  Beautiful !  so*  is  old  clump-foot  beautiful.  Well, 
well ;  the  devil  will  have  the  picking  of  his  bones,  one  of 
these  days, —  that 's  some  comfort." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Edgarton  !  "  said  my  aunt. 

"  He  is  a  horrid  creatur',  Mrs.  Eaton,  and  that 's  the 
truth.  I  should  like  to  give  him  one  walloping  for  his 
abuse  of  Lelia." 

"  Leave  him  in  the  hands  of  his  Maker,"  said  Mrs. 
Stewart.  "  '  Shall  not  the  Lord  of  all  the  earth  do 
right?'" 

The  next  morning  news  came  that  Deacon  Webber 
was  crazy.  In  company  with  my  uncle  and  Mr.  Edgar- 
ton,  I  went  to  see  him.  He  had  become  so  raving  in  the 
night  that  it  was  necessary  to  chain  him.  After  being 


THE  WEBBER  FAMILY.  399 

chained,  he  tore  every  rag  of  clothing  from  his  body.  I 
have  never  seen  such  a  hideous,  frightful  object,  as  he 
•was  on  that  morning. 

"  It  is  mine,  all,  all  mine,"  he  said  ;  "  and  1 :11  have 
it !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  the  white  silver  and  the  yellow 
gold  is  all  mine.  They  thought  to  rob  me  of  it,  did 
they?  They  can't  do  it.  I'll  have  it,  I'll  have  it! 
Will  they  keep  it  all  ?  No,  no  !  by  the  gods.  Justice  ! 
justice  !  See  !  there  's  a  robber  after  my  gold, —  my 
yellow  gold.  Back  !  back  with  ye,  you  bloody  villain ! 
Let  me  get  hold  of  him !  I  '11  break  his  bones,  tear  his 
heart  out,  and  let  the  swine  feast  upon  his  flesh  !  Let 
me.  go!  let  me  go,  I  say!  they  are  robbing  me!  0 
God  !  0  God  !  There  !  there  they  are,  stealing  all  my 
treasures.  Stand  back  !  awaj  !  I  —  I  —  know  you 
now.  The  demons — the  black  demons — hold  me  fast! 
Don't,  don't  take  it  all !  I  am  a  poor  old  man.  I  sold 
my  soul  for  my  gold ;  —  it 's  all  I  have.  You  will  not 
take  it  all,  good  people?  Leave  the  old  man  a  little  I  I 
pray  you, — I  beg  !  I  shall  starve,  if  you  take  it !  Could 
I  but  break  these  chains,  I  'd  tear  ye  !  Beware,  ye 
bloody  fiends !  0  !  what  is  burning  at  my  heart  ? 
Hell  is  in  my  bosom  !  0,  iny  head  !  my  head  !  Don't 
you  see  the  devils  ?  Look  !  see  their  red  jaws,  long 
teeth,  and  flaming  tongues  !  How  they  hiss  !  Down 
with  ye,  damned  spirits !  down  to  hell  !  Where  is  my 
gold  ?  I  know ;  I  hid  it  all  last  night.  Ha !  ha  ! 


400  THE  WEBBER  FAMILY. 

Search,  search  for  it,  ye  villains  !  but  you  can't  find  it, 
—  you  never  can  find  it.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  ha  ! 

"  I  '11  have  him  yet.  He  cannot  escape  me  now.  He 
shall  not  always  baulk  me.  Let  him  look  to  it, —  look 
to  it, —  or  I  '11  tear  out  his  dastard  heart !  I  '11  bite  out 
his  eyes  !  Don't  take  it, —  the  poor  old  man  will  starve. 
I  shall  die  !  Laugh,  ye  horrid  monsters !  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha!  ha!" 

In  this  strain  he  continued,  with  scarcely  any  inter 
mission  ;  and  before  many  days  had  passed  away  he  was  a 
corpse.  His  property  amounted  to  thirty  thousand  dollars, 
and  he  had  willed  it,  with  the  exception  of  two  hundred 
dollars,  to  Hezekiah  and  Hannah.  After  his  death,  Mr. 
Edgarton  felt  some  remorse,  lest  what  he  said  to  him  had 
been  the  cause  of  it.  But  I  told  him  that  most  likely  the 
result  would  have  been  the  same  when  the  story  reached 
him,  and  I  did  not  doubt  but  that  he  was  more  than  half 
crazy  before.  These  suggestions  were  abundantly  satis 
factory  to  him,  and  he  was  as  ready  to  laugh  and  joke  as 
ever. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

THE  reader  will  remember  that  my  mother,  on  her 
death-bed,  requested  me  to  read  my  father's  diary.  My 
mind  had  been  so  much  occupied  with  other  subjects 
that  I  had  hitherto  neglected  to  do  so.  I  took  it  out  of 
the  drawer  while  Uncle  and  Aunt  Eaton  were  visiting  us, 
and,  after  reading  it  to  myself,  at  their  request  read  the 
most  of  it  to  them.  Some  brief  extracts  may  not  prove 
uninteresting  to  the  reader : 

"  It  has  ever  been  my  boast  that  I  was  heart-whole, 
"  but  I  can  utter  that  boast  no  more.  I  was  fated,  to- 
' '  day,  to  behold  a  being  of  such  entrancing  beauty  that 
'  my  heart  surrendered  at  once.  One  glance  from  those 
"  killing  black  eyes,  and  it  was  all  over  with  me ;  for  I 
"  felt  as  helpless  as  a  captive  bird.  '  Well,  ^Er.  Eaton, 
"what's  to  be  done  now?'  A  pertinent  question,  and 
"  Mr.  Eaton  must  answer  it.  I  do  not  know  who  she  is. 
u  I  do  not  even  know  her  name,  but  I*  will  learn  it,  I 
"  make  no  doubt ;  and,  what 's  more,  I  '11  learn  her  heart 
•'  too,  and  win  it  to  myself,  to  be  all  my  own,  if  so  be 
•'  the  gods  but  aid  me." 
34* 


402  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

*  *  *  *.          * 

i  1 1  am  happy  and  sad  to-night ;  happy  because  I  have 
"seen  the  beautiful  angel  again,  and  sad  lest  I  should 
"  fail  to  win  her.  But  it  must  not  be  so.  I  '11  study 
"  the  lexicon  of  my  heart,  and,  if  I  find  any  such  word 
"  there  as,  fail,  I  will  expunge  it  before  I  sleep.  Mary 
"  Flanders,  that 's  her  name,  and  it  is  a  good  name  too  ; 
"but  how  would  it  look  changed  to  Mary  Eaton?  I 
"  like  the  latter  best.  I  always  did  think  that  Mary  was 
"  the  sweetest  name  in  the  universe,  and  now  it  is  ten 
^ "  thousand  times  sweeter  than  ever.  A  friend  asked  me, 
"  to-day,  if  I  thought  her  handsome.  Handsome !  she 
"  is  more  than  that,  for  she  is  perfectly  beautiful.  Every 
"  feature  of  her  face  is  charming,  and  her  eyes  are  soul- 
"  full  of  thought,  eloquent,  and  big  with  hope,  light  and 
"joy.  But  her  form  is  enravishing, — full,  round,  almost 
"  voluptuous  ;  but  I  would  not  have  it  other  than  it  is, 
"  for  it  is  perfect." 

***** 

"  0,  this  suspense  is  killing,  and  I  cannot  endure  it ! 
' '  I  must  see  Mary ;  —  see  her,  ay,  I  must  know  her 
"  well.  Who  is  coming  to  disturb  my  re  very  now,  I 
"wonder?  The  intruder  is  not  welcome.  A  letter, — 
"no,  a  note;-*- an  invitation  to  an  evening  party  at 

"  Mr. 's.    I  will  go,  and  may  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to 

"  meet  her  who  is  so  dear  to  this  unquiet  heart !  " 
***** 


MY  FATHER'S  DIARY.  403 

"  It  is  nearly  morning,  and  here  I  am,  once  more,  in 
"  my  own  little  room  ;  but  I  have  no  wish  to  sleep,  no 
"  inclination,  —  so  I  will  write.  This  has  been  a  charming 
"  night,  and  the  moon  has  swam  in  the  blue  ocean  above 
"  for  many  pleasant  hours.  Her  light  has  departed  now, 
"  for  yonder  black  cloud,  rolling  up  in  the  west  with 
"  such  dark  grandeur,  caught  her  in  its  huge  arms  and 
"  smothered  her  out  of  sight.  And  Mary  was  at  the 
li  party  ;  all  that  I  prayed  for  has  been  granted.  We 
"  know  each  other  now.  I  have  touched  her  hand,  and, 
"  0,  rapture  !  I  have  pressed  my  lips  to  her  downy 
"  cheeks  and  ripe  lips,  and  she  has  pressed  her  lips  to 
"  mine  !  Thanks,  thanks  for  the  party,  or  this  could  not 
"have  been.  I  kissed  others,  —  did  I?  Bah!  but  I 
"  could  not  help  it.  I  would  have  kissed  a  whole  army 
"  of  women,  rather  than  lost  those  sweet  kisses  of 
"  Mary." 


"  0,  cruel  disappointment  !  thou  tellest  me  I  am  but 
"  mortal.  With  a  friend  I  called  on  Mr.  Flanders  to- 
"  day,  but  I  did  not  see  Mary;  she,  alas  !  was  far  away, 
"  fifty  miles  fromJiome,  at  school.  Delays  are  danger- 
"  ous,  I  do  believe,  for  I  should  have  gone  before. 
"What  shall  I  do  now?" 

***** 

"  The  skies  look  brighter  to-night,  for  I  have  had  an 
"  encouraging  word  from  Mary's  father.  I  called  and 


404  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

"  was  shown  into  his  study;  and,  after  discussing  politics, 
"  the  weather,  and  various  other  things,  in  which  I  fell 
"  into  most  ludicrous  mistakes,  I  made  bold  to  speak  of 
"  Mary.  He  seemed  deeply  interested,  and  talked  in 
"such  a  way  as  to  encourage  me  to  tell  him  what  my 
"  sentiments  were.  He  said  that  he  conceived  it  an 
"  honor,  and  hoped  I  might  win  his  daughter's  heart 
"and  hand,  for  I  had  his  sanction  and  best  wishes. 

"  '  You  met  at  Mr.  's  party.     She  spoke  of  you  so 

"often  afterwards,  that  we  all  told  her  she  was  in 
"  love  with  you  ;  and  I  doubt  not  she  was  well  pleased 
"  with  your  appearance.'  Mr.  Flanders  invited  me  to 
"  call  again  soon.  I  shall  go." 

***** 

"  I  have  once  more  seen  the  father  of  my  darling 
"  Mary;  for  I  feel  that  she  is  mine  now,  or  nearly  so. 
"  Mr.  Flanders  says  that  Mary  loves  me,  but  he  wishes 
"  the  matter  should  be  left  where  it  is,  until  she  returns 
"from  school;  for,  if  I  should  write  or  visit  her, 
"  he  is  fearful  that  her  schooling  will  do  her  but 
"little  good.  She  would  be  thinking  of  me,  and  not 
"  of  her  books.  Bless  her.  I  hope  she  will  think  of 
"  me  !  0,  how  enrapturing,  to  engage  all  the  thoughts 
"  of  such  a  glorious  being  !  -I  have  promised  to  comply 
"  with  the  wishes  of  Mr.  Flanders.  But,  in  the  mean 
"time,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  cannot  stay  here,  for  this 
"  ennui  is  awful, —  so  I  am  off." 


MY  FATHER'S  DIARY.  405 

***** 
"  It  was  late  last  night  when  I  returned  from  my 
"journey,  and  so  I  could  not  see  the  one  whom  I  dearly 
"  love.  I  had  but  just  laid  my  head  upon  my  pillow,  when 
"  the  wind  began  to  blow —  not  loud  and  clear,  like  that 
"of  the  West,  which  goes  on  its  way  with  such  a  grand 
"sweep,  making  all  the  proud  old  trees  do  it  reverence 
"as  it  passes  by ;  but  it  had  an  unpleasant  moan,  and 
"  sometimes  it  sobbed  as  if  it  had  known  the  bitterness  of 
"great  grief.  The  sounds  went  to  my  heart,  and  caused 
"it  to  feel  strangely  sad ;  as  though  some  calamity 
"  was  about  to  draw  near,  and  touch  my  hopes  with  the 
"  poison  of  its  lips.  Is  it  superstition,  or  has  the  wind  a 
"  spirit  which  warns  us  of  approaching  griefs  and  diaap- 
"pointments?  I  know  not,  but  I  feel  disappointment 
"  to-night.  I  went  this  afternoon,  with  a  light  heart, 
"  to  visit  her  who  will  one  day  be  all  my  own.  To  my 
"  surprise,  I  learned  that  she  had  been  at  home  some 
"  months.  But  how  she  has  changed  since  I  saw  her ! 
"  What  can  be  the  cause  of  it  ?  She  is  pale  and  listless, 
"  and  her  face  has  lost  the  sprightly,  joyous  expression. 
"  I  fear  she  has  studied  too  much.  Overtax  the  brain, 
"  and  the  roses  will  leave  the  cheek,  and  the  brightest 
"  eye  grow  dull.  But  she  seemed  not  pleased  to  see  me. 
"Has  her  nature  lost  all  its  glad  enthusiasm, —  its 
"  up-springing,  buoyant  life  ?  I  hope  not !  " 

*  *  *  *  * 


406  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

"  We  are  to  marry, —  and  yet  I  am  not  happy.  There 
"  must  be  trouble  somewhere,  and  I  wish  I  could  learn 
"  where  and  what  it  is.  The  sky  is  cloudy,  and  the 
"  grief-rain  is  falling;  and  will  the  bow  of  promise 
"come  out?  I  love  her  —  love  her  dearly;  but,  does 
"  she  love  me  ?  Shall  the  golden  light  of  mutual  joy 
"  ever  gladden  our  way  ?  There  is  a  bright  star  looking 
"  down  sweetly  at  me ;  —  is  it  an  omen  of  good  ?  Alas  ! 
"  the  clouds  have  shut  it  from  my  sight,  and  again  the 
"  wind  sobs  as  it  did  on  the  first  night  of  my  return. 
11  0,  my  God !  grant  me  but  this,  that  when  Mary  is  all 

"  my  own,  she  shall  smile  again  as  of  yore  ! " 

#  *  *  #  * 

» 

"Mary  is  a  wife  now  —  my  wife, —  but  we  are  not 

"happy;  and  my  heart,  instead  of  brimming  with  joy 
"  to-night,  is  aching  with  hopes  once  so  fresh  and  glad, 
"  but  now  withering  for  the  grave.  Only  one  week,  l  one 
"little'  week,  since  we  married;  and  yet,  0,  horror!  I 
"  almost  regret  that  she  is  mine.  Two  or  three  languid, 
"  miserable  smiles,  is  all  the  sunshine  I  have  known 
"  since  I  led  her,  with  loving  hands  and  a  faithful 
"  heart,  to  the  altar.  She  is  irritable  and  unhappy, 

"  and   I Travel    and   excitement   may   produce   a 

"  change,  and  bring  back  the  color  to  her  cheeks,  and  a 
"  smile  to  her  eyes.  0,  I  would  give  worlds  to  see  her 
"  once  more  as  she  was  on  that  heavenly  night  when  I 
"  first  pressed  my  lips  to  her  beautiful  cheek  ! 


MY  FATHER'S  DIARY.  407 

"  Bright  summer  glories  are  all  around  me,  and  the 
"  day  is  clear,  balmy  and  serene.  There  was  a  time 
11  when  I  should  have  been  happy,  most  happy,  on  a  day 
"  like  this.  But  0,  I  am  not  happy  now,  and  I  may 
"  never  be  again  ;  for  the  bright  angel  of  hope  comes  not 
"  now  to  make  her  home  in  my  heart !  I  could  not 
"  have  believed,  upon  my  wedding-day3  that  in  two 
"  short  months  —  short,  have  I  said?  —  I  should  be  the 
' £  poor  wretch  that  I  am.  Mary  is  not  only  unhappy 
"herself,  but  she  is  very  unkind;  and  sometimes  she 
"  says  things  to  me  that  I  would  bear  from  no  other 
"  living  being.  I  have  done  all  that  I  could  to  gratify 
"  her.  We  have  visited  many  interesting  places.  We 
"  have  stood  by  the  sea-side,  and  viewed  the  blue  expanse 
"  of  waters,  and  heard  the  great  hymn  of  the  waves,  and 
"  saw  them  dash  upon  the  shore  as  though  they  would 
"  break  through  the  battlements  of  God  !  We  have  seen 
"  the  mountains,  whose  snowy  summits  were  capped  with 
"  clouds  ;  and  we  have  stood  upon  their  highest  peaks, 
"  and  heard  the  wind  rush  down  their  sides,  the  thunders 
"rumble  and  roar,  while  the  lightning  leaped  from  the 
"  dark  threatening  masses  above  and  around  us,  and 
11  covered  the  mountains  with  red  sheets  of  flame.  We 
"have  seen  Niagara,  the  wonder  of  the  world;  her  wild, 
"  madly-dashing  waters,  her  billows  of  foam,  her  clouds 
"  of  mist  and  spray,  and  her  rainbows,  which  seemed  like 
"  water-spirits  dropped  down  from  the  clouds.  We  heard 


408  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

"  the  mighty  cataract,  and  almost  fancied  we  saw  the 
"  lightnings,  when  the  falling  waters  flashed  in  the  sun- 
"  light.  But,  merciful  God !  all  has  been  in  vain. 
"  I  have  entreated  Mary  to  tell  me  why  she  is  not  happy; 
"  but  she  will  not  open  her  lips." 

***** 

"  Cold  winter  is  rapidly  approaching.  Alas  !  the  win- 
"  ter  of  the  heart  has  already  come,  cruelly  blighting 
"fresh-budding  hopes,  cutting  down  all  the  flowers  of 
"  life,  filling  the  air  with  frost  and  snow,  and  desolating 
"  the  world !  Life  has  become  a  burden,  for  all  the 
"  leaping  fountains  of  pleasure  are  fettered  with  the 
"  chains  of  cold  and  frost.  Happiness  has  been  stabbed 
"  at  the  heart,  and  she  lays  low  in  the  dust,  bleeding, 
"dying;  and  the  freezing  winds  are  howling  around  her, 
"  shrieking  her  requiem." 

***** 

"  What  a  dream  of  bliss  was  mine  !  0,  God !  that  I 
1  was  doomed  to  awake  to  such  horrors.  Peace,  poor 
'  heart  and  murmur  not,  but  hope  yet.  Yea,  I  will  hope. 
"  There  must  be  a  change  for  the  better.  Mary  will  yet 
"love  me.  When  a  mother's  hopes  and  joys  are  hers, 
"  her  heart  must  soften." 

***** 

"  What  would  be  winter  with  no  expectation  of  gentle 
"spring?  Should  we  not  despair?  Such  is  my  lot, 
"  for  Mary  dearly  loves  her  bright-eyed  boy,  but 


409 


"  there  is  little  love  for  me.  He  is  a  beautiful  child, 
"  and  I  have  given  him  the  name  of  my  only  brother. 
"  May  his  heart  be  as  noble  and  good  !  " 

*  *  *  *  * 

*  "  Many  years  have  rolled  away,  and  journeyed  far  into 
"  the  past,  since  my  wedding-day, —  a  day  so  Dig  with 
"  hope.  I  remember,  as  though  it  had  been  but  yester- 
"  day.  It  was  when  the  hills  and  valleys  were  spread 
11  over  with  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  spring,  and  my 
"  heart  was  light  and  joyous,  almost  perfect  in  its  happi- 
"  ness.  A  few  sunny  smiles  would  have  made  it  so.  I 
"  then  thought  I  had  but  just  commenced  life.  Every 
"  eye  seemed  to  rest  upon  my  lovely  bride  in  admiration. 
"  Alas  !  she  had  no  beauty  of  the  heart.  We  have  now 
"four  children;  and  the  last,  a  beautiful  boy,  I  have 
"  named  for  myself.  This  does  not  please  his  mother. 
"  She  wanted  his  name  Herbert,  but  I  would  have  one 
"  child  who  should  bear  my  own  name.  Herbert  is  a 
"  name  which  will  do  well  enough;  but  I  see  no  reason 
"  why  she  should  have  insisted  upon  his  having  the  name. 
"  If  she  had  a  friend  or  relative  by  the  name  of  Herbert, 
"  I  should  not  think  so  strange  of  it." 

***** 

"  What  a  marvellous  thing  is  this  life  of  ours  !     Who 

"  can  solve  its  mysteries?    Why  is  it  that  so  many  should 

"  groan  in  poverty,  doomed  to  unremitting  toil  for  a 

"pittance  so  small   that  it  barely  keeps  soul  and  body 

35 


410  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

"  from  parting  company?  Why  is  it  that  a  portion  of 
"  mankind  should  live  in  idle  extravagance  and  waste  ? 
"  Why  are  we  doomed  to  misfortune,  sickness,  and  -the 
11  thousand  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to?  Such  thoughts  will 
" come*  crowding  upon  me  at  times;  and  then  I  should 
"  fall  under  the  weight  of  my  sorrows,  if  my  faith  in  an 
"  over-ruling  Power  was  not  strong  and  unwavering. 
"  He  who  permitted  evil  and  suffering  to  enter  the  world 
"  will  ultimately  over-rule  them  all  for  good.  Let  me 
"believe  this,  and  my  heart  shall  still  find  rest.  That  I 
"  must  continue  to  suffer,  I  well  know  ;  but  it  would  seem 
"  that  I  should  be  happy.  I  have  an  abundance  of  what 
"  are  called  the  good  things  of  this  world,  and  a  wife  and 
" four  beautiful  children.  Why  should  I  not  be  happy? 
"  There  is  but  one  thing  lacking.  I  was  made  to  love 
"  and  to  be  loved.  If  Mary  loved  me  truly,  and  was 
"  ever  kind  to  me  and  faithful  to  her  children,  fulness 
"  of  joy  would  be  mine.  I  had  anticipated  so  much 
"  happiness  in  the  married  state,  that  the  cruel  disap- 
"  pointment  is  grievous  to  be  borne.  0,  God  !  give 
"  me  patience,  to  bear  without  a  murmur  my  heavy 
"burden  of  grief." 

***** 

11 1  regret  that  our  ideas  of  governing  children  are  so 
"  different.  I  would  never  strike  them  a  blow.  Such 
"  punishment  is  degrading,  and  should  be  banished  from 
11  the  world.  Henri  is  not  a  favorite  with  his  mother, 


MY  FATHER'S  DIARY.  411 

"and,  on  that  account,  I  fear  he  receives  more  whip- 
"  pings  than  he  otherwise  would." 

#  *  *  #  * 

"  «  Trouble,  trouble, 

"  Fire  burn  and  cauldron  bubble.' 

"  I  do  not  like  to  quarrel  and  wrangle  ;  and  yet  I  can- 
"not  always  avoid  it.  My  wife  has  just  been  whipping 
"  Henri,  very  severely,  for  a  most  trivial  offence.  I 
"demanded  the  cause  of  such  harsh  treatment,  and  she 
"  told  me  to  attend  to  my  own  business,  and  she  would 
"  take  care  of  hers.  She  intended  to  be  mistress  in  the 
"  house,  and  she  had  no  objection  to  my  being  master  out 
"of  it. 

"  *  It  will  do  no  good  to  whip  a  child  so  young,'  I  said. 

"  '  He  is  my  child,'  she  replied,  *  as  much  as  yours  ; 
"and  I  will  whip  him  when  I  think  he  deserves  it !  ' 

"  c  But  you  are  too  severe,  and  you  will  ruin  him  for- 
"  ever,  and  drive  all  the  love  from  his  heart.' 

"  'He  shall  mind  me,  or  I  will  whip  him  till  the  blood 
"  runs ! ' 

"  These  words,  and  the  manner  in  which  she  uttered 
"them,  made  me  angry,  and  I  said,  'By-  — ,  you 
"  shan't ! ' 

"  *  So  help  me  God,  I  will ! '  she  replied. 

"  '  You  abuse  him,  Mary,  and  you  know  you  do.     If 


412  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

"  you  corrected  him  as  a  parent  should,  I  would  be  the 
"  last  one  to  interfere.' 

"'He  is  the  most  irritating  and  the  worst- tempered 
"  boy  I  ever  saw;  and,  when  I  think  that  a  whipping 
:1  will  do  him  good,  he  will  be  pretty  sure  to  get  it,  in 
"  spite  of  your  prohibition.' 

"  c  Be  careful,  Mary,  or  you  may  go  beyond  the 
"  bounds  of  endurance.  You  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that 
"  Henri  is  a  noble  boy,  for  one  so  young.  If  he  has  a 
11  quick,  passionate  temper,  such  treatment  as  he  receives 
"  at  your  hands  will  only  make  it  worse  and  worse  every 
" day.  How  can  you  be  so  cruel  to  your  own  child?  ' 

"  '  I  am  all  to  blame  for  his  bad  temper,  of  course. 
"  He  has  your  disposition,  and  that  is  enough  to  wear 
"  any  one  to  the  grave.  I  wonder  that  I  have  lived  so 
"long!' 

11  {  So  do  I,  Mary.  "We  live  a  most  miserable  life, — 
"  and  who  is  the  cause  of  it  ?  ' 

"  '  Of  course,  I  am  the  whole  cause  of  it !  That  is  the 
"  way  with  you  men, —  the  women  are  all  to  blame.' 

"  c  Ask  your  own  heart.' 

"  '  I  shall  not  trouble  myself.' 

"  '  0,  Mary  ! ' 

"  '  If  you  are  about' to  faint,  I  '11  run  for  the  camphor.' 

"  Such  scenes  are  not  unfrequent  in  our  home  ;  and  so 
"  peace  and  happiness  have  sought  in  vain  to  take  up 
"  their  abode  with  us.  God  knows  that  I  hate  these  matri- 


MY  FATHER'S  DIARY.  .413 

"  monial  conflicts.  I  witnessed  some  before  I  was  mar- 
"  ried ;  but  I  little  dreamed  that  I  should  ever  be  doomed 
"  to  take  part  in  them.  Henri  is  a  smart,  high-spirited 
"  boy ;  and,  as  his  mother  does  not  manifest  so  much  love 
"  and  forbearance  for  him  as  for  the  other  children,  he  is 
"  the  cause  of  the  most  of  our  bickerings.  I  did  not  wish 
"  to  have  more  affection  for  one  child  than  for  another; 
"  but  I  know  well  enough  that  r  love  Henri  best.  As 
"  his  mother  does  not  treat  him  so  well  as  she  should,  his 
"  brothers  and  sisters  seem  to  think  they  have  the  same 
"  privilege ;  and  the  evil  has  doubly  increased  since  the 
"  birth  of  George.  I  fear  that  Henri's  disposition  will 
"  be  entirely  spoiled.  If  he  is  not  used  well,  he  is  ever 
"  ready  to  fight,  whether  his  opponent  is  great  or  small. 
"  I  tremble  to  think  what  he  may  be  led  to  do,  in  a 
"  moment  of  passion,  should  he  live  to  be  a  man  ! 

"  Mary  is  one  of  the  strangest  women  I  ever  met  with. 
"  She  has  manifested  but  little  affection  for  me,  since  she 
"  became  my  wife.  A  few  times  she  has  seemed  to 
"  relent, —  the  love-star  would  glimmer  for  a  moment, 
"  and  then  go  out  in  three-fold  darkness.  When  she  has 
"  given  me  but  a  single  ray  of  love,  I  have  felt  that, 
"  would  it  but  continue  to  shine  on,  I  could  forget  and 
"  forgive  all.  Why  did  she  marry  me,  if  she  had  no  love 
"  in  her  heart?  I  imagine,  sometimes,  that  there  is  a 
"  hidden  cause  for  this  strange  conduct;  but  what  it  is 
"  I  have  sought  in  vain  to  learn.  I  have  watched  her 
35*  ' 


414^  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

"when  she  seemed  in  deep  and  painful  thought;  for 
il  she  sat  in  an  abstracted  mood,  and  the  tears  rolled 
"  down  her  cheeks,  which  still  retain  much  of  the  beauty 
"  they  possessed  when  she  first  won  my  love.  I  fancy. 
"  at  times,  that  she  is  deranged.  Would  to  God  I  could 
"  believe  it !  But  no,  —  or  if  it  *  be  madness,  yet  there  \s 
"  method  in  it.' 

"  Well,  well !  repinftg  will  do  no  good;  so  I  will  try 
"  to  suffer  on,  without  murmuring.  My  life  is  not  in 
"  vain;  for  I  sometimes  visit  the  suffering,  and  feed  the 
"hungry,  and  clothe  the  naked.  I  have  done  it  to-day. 
"  A  poor  drunkard's  family  was  in  the  greatest  distress, 
"  and  it  did  my  heart  good  to  relieve  it.  How  thankful 
"  they  were !  It  is  a  luxury  to  do  good.  '  More  blessed 
"  to  give  than  to  receive.' 

"  Heaven  has  sent  us  another  child,  and  his  name  is 
"  Herbert.  I  wished  to  call  him  William,  after  an  old 
"friend;  but  I  had  my  way  once  before,  and  so  his 
"  mother  has  her  way  now.  But  why  is  she  so  tenacious 
"  about  it?  I  suppose  I  shall  learn  the  reason  when  I 
"  learn  a  great  many  other  things  more  mysterious  than 
"this." 

***** 

"  Trouble  and  grief  have  at  last  done  their  work,  and 
"  now  I  must  die.  Consumption  has  poisoned  the  very 
"fountain  of  life,  and  there  is  no  hope.  It  has  already 
"  deceived  me  too  often.  Health  and  strength  will  never 


415 


"  come  again.  Such  is  life,  and  I  am  reconciled.  My 
"  wife  is  a  little  more  kind,  but  she  loves  me  riot ;  but  may 
11  God  pardon  her  as  freely  as  I  do !  I  must  leave  seven 
"  children,  with  no  one  to  guide  them  aright.  I  am 
" wrong;  Mrs.  Stewart  has  promised  to  be  a  mother  to 
"them, — bear  and  forbear, —  and  she  will  be  faithful  to 
"her  word.  She  has  done  much  for  my  children  now  ; 
"and  her  influence  with  Henri  is  great,  and  he  dearly 
"loves  her.  I  would  that  there  was  more  union  among 
"  the  children,  but  wishes  are  vain.  I  have  never  seen  a 
"  stronger  love  between  brothers  than  there  is  between 
"  Henri  and  Herbert.  This  fact  seems  to  vex  their 
"  mother  not  a  little,  which  is  another  mystery." 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  I  must  leave  them  all  in  the  hands  of  God,  trusting 
"  that  all  things  shall  come  out  well  at  last.  My  wife 
"has  made  me  one  solemn  promise,  for  which  I  thank 
"  her.  Mrs.  Stewart  is  to  continue  to  reside  in  the  fam- 
"ily  until  the  children  shall  become  men  and  women. 
"  It  is  hard  to  leave  them ;  but  the  great  King  demands 
"  that  another  victim  shall  be  offered  on  his  dark  altar, 
"  and  I  am  ready.  I  shall  depart  in  peace,  trusting  in 
"  the  mercy  of  God,  and  in  the  redeeming  grace  of  Jesus 
"  Christ.  When  I  shall  have  entered  the  spirit-land,  may 
"  God  grant,  even  though  it  bring  weary  toil  and  suffer- 
"  ing,  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  watch  over  and  guard  my 
"children!" 


416  MY  FATHER'S  DIARY. 

These  extracts,  -which  I  have  made  from  the  large 
number  of  pages  of  which  the  journal  is  composed,  are 
sufficient  to  show  to  the  reader  how  unhappy  was  my 
father's  wedded  life.  They  show,  too,  that  he  had  a  good 
heart,  and  that  he  bore  his  wrongs  with  a  commendable 
degree  of  patience. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

WHEN  our  good  uncle  and  aunt  had  returned  to  their 
home,  Mrs.  Stewart,  Lelia  and  myself,  were  left  in  quiet 
possession  of  the  dear  and  pleasant  old  homestead.  I  need 
not  to  inform  the  reader  that  life  was  now  peaceful  and 
joyous ;  for  how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  One  day,  when 
Lelia  had  run  in  to  see  Mr.  Edgarton  a  few  minutes,  I 
noticed  that  Mrs.  Stewart's  face  wore  a  very  thoughtful 
expression. 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  a  revery,"  I  remarked. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  old  scenes,"  she  replied. 

"  I  hope  your  thoughts  were  pleasant." 

"  Yes,  dear,  more  so  than  they  were  wont  to  be  in 
days  gone  by." 

"lam  glad  of  that,  dear  mother,"  I  said,  kneeling 
down  before  her,  and  taking  her  hands  in  mine,  looking 
up  to  her  face  with  my  heart  brim-full  of  love  and  filial 
devotion. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  boy !  "  she  replied,  bending 
down  aifft  kissing  my  cheek,  while  tears  of  joy  glistened 
in  her  eyes. 


418  <5LD    ACQUAINTANCE. 

11  He  has  blessed  me,  beyond  my  deserts,  in  giving  me 
such  a  sweet  wife  and  good  mother.  You  are  happy, 
-now,  I  trust." 

"  God  knows  I  am,  Henri,  very,  very  happy,"  she 
said,  while  the  tears  fell  rapidly  from  her  eyes.  ' '  I  did 
not  expect  that  such  blessings  would  be  mine  in  my  old 
I  thought  Lelia  was  in  her  grave,  and  that  she 
not  come  to  me,  but  I  must  go  to  her.  Little  did 
I  think,  when  I  took  in  the  poor,  pale-faced  boy,  and  gave 
him  a  good  warm  supper,  that  it  was  my  own  child  ! 
How  glad  I  am  that  I  always  treated  children  well !  If  I 
had  not,  it  might  have  been  my  punishment  to  have 
abused  and  slighted  my  own  lost  one." 

"Your  heart  was  always  too  merciful  to  allow  you  to 
abuse  anything." 

"I  can  almost  return  the  compliment." 

"  Not  quite." 

"  But  you  have  a  good  heart,  Henri ;  and  you  have 
done  so  much  for  me  !  " 

"  Not  so  much  as  you  have  for  me." 

"I  believe  you  mistaken  there,  but  we  will  not  quar 
rel, —  I  am  glad  that  the  obligations  are  mutual.  I  have 
cause  to  be  thankful  for  one  thing,  which  I  could  not 
reasonably  have  anticipated,  had  I  known  that  Lelia  was 
living." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  She  is  as   innocent  and  as  pure,  and  more    self- 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE.  419 

sacrificing,  than  she  could  have  been,  had  she  always 
remained  with  me."  -. 

"  She  has  passed  through  the  fire,  and  come  out  un 
scathed." 

"There  are  but  few  natures  that  could  endure  so 
much,  and  remain  pure,  innocent,  and  most  loving  of 
heart!" 

Here  there  was  a  pause,  while  I  continued  to  hold  her 
hands,  and  gaze  into  her  face.  After  sitting  in  silence 
for  a  few  minutes,  she  said, 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Henri,  which  would  gratify  me 
very  much." 

"  What  is  it?"  I  inquired. 

"  To  visit,  once  more,  my  old  home  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Uncle  Eaton's? " 

"  No,  Henri !  The  home  which  was  mine  before  my 
husband  was  taken  from  me,  and  where  I  lived  when  I 
lost  my  Lelia  !  " 

"Your  wish  shall  be  granted,  mother;  and  we  will 
go  to-morrow,  if  the  day  is  pleasant." 

"You  must  not  tell  Lelia  of  our  intentions :  for  she 
thinks  she  should  know  the  house,  and  the  scenery 
around  it." 

"  I  will  not ;  for  I  am  as  anxious  to  see  what  the 
result  will  be  as  you  are." 

Here  Lelia  came  in;  and,  seeing  my  position,  she 
knelt  down  by  my  side,  looking  into  the  face  of  each 


420  OLD   ACQUAINTANCE. 

•with  worlds  of  affection  gushing  from  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 
f  It  was  a  happy  trio,  and  the  purest  joy  was  brimming  in 
•all  our  hearts. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  rose  clear  and  golden,  mak 
ing  the  world  glad  in  its  great  light.  At  eight  o'clock 
we  commenced  our  short  journey.  We  had  but  nine 
miles  to  go,  and  the  ride  was  pleasant ;  for  the  road  was 
good,  and  the  scenery  varied  and  pleasing.  Mrs.  Stew 
art  informed  me,  by  a  sign,  when  we  passed  the  house 
where  Austin,  the  murderer,  had  lived.  Just  beyond 
we  came  to  some  woods ;  and  then  Lelia  suddenly  started, 
and  turned  very  pale.  I  inquired  the  cause  of  her  emo 
tion.  She  said  that  strange  and  indistinct  thoughts  came 
crowding  upon  her,  as  soon  as  she  came  in  sight  of  the 
grove. 

"It  must  have  been  there,"  she  said,  "where  the 
monster  attempted  to  take  my  life  !  It  makes  my  blood 
run  cold  to  think  of  it !  " 

We  had  gone  but  a  little  further,  when  she  clapped 
her  hands  with  delight. 

"  0,  there  is  my  home, —  I  know  it  is  !  There  is 
1  the  cot  where  I  was  born !'  Is  n't  it,  mother  ?  "  pointing 
to  a  little  cottage. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  is  the  place  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"0,  yes,  I  know  it  is  !  and  there  is  a  brook  on  be 
yond  it ! " 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  I  replied. 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE.  421 

"  You  will  when  you  get  to  the  cottage  !  " 

Sure  enough,  when  I  stopped  the  horse  in  front  of  the 
house,  a  bright  little  stream  met  my  eyes  just  beyond. 
Mrs.  Stewart  seemed  greatly  affected. 

"  This  was  our  home,  was  it  not,  dear  mother  ?  "  said 
Lelia. 

"  Yes,  my  child  !  "  she  answered,  almost  overcome  by 
old  remembrances,  which  came  thronging  upon  her. 
Just  then  we  noticed  a  number  of  faces  at  the  window. 
Lelia  saw  them,  and,  after  looking  earnestly,  inquired 
who  they  were. 

"  I  never  saw  either  of  them  before,"  said  her  mother. 
"Have  you,  Henri?" 

"  I  should  think  not,"  I  replied. 

"  Where  can  I  have  seen  them?  "  said  Lelia. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  them  before?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Not  all  of  them.     Where  could  it  be  ?  " 

In  the  mean  time,  the  people  in  the  house,  seeing  that 
we  were  not  disposed  to  go  any  further,  came  and  opened 
the  door.  I  briefly  informed  them  that  the  two  ladies  I 
had  with  me  were  mother  and  daughter,  and  that  they 
lived  in  the  cottage  many  years  ago,  and  had  now  come 
to  see  it  once  more.  The  one  who  appeared  to  be  the 
mother  now  came  to  the  door,  and  invited  us  in.  The 
mother  and  three  daughters  were  binding  shoes.  Lelia 
kept  moving  her  eyes  from  one  to  another  of  the  inmates, 
as  if  she  was  puzzled  to  make  out  who  they  were. 
36 


422  OLD    ACQUAINTANCE. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.     "  It  is  so  strange  !  " 

"  What  is  so  strange  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  them  before,  —  I  know  I  have  !  " 

I  turned  to  the  mother,  and  inquired  how  long  she 
had  lived  in  the  cottage.  - 

"  Some  eight  or  ten  years,"  she  replied. 

"  Where  did  you  live  before  ?  " 

She  regarded  me  a  moment  as  though  she  thought  I 
was  possessed  of  a  large  share  of  inquisitiveness,  and  then 
answered,  "In  Boston,  sir." 

Lelia  now  looked  up,  as  if  a  new  light  had  broken  in 
upon  her. 

"  Your  name  ?  "  she  said. 

"Means,"  was  the  reply. 

I  made  a  signal  to  Lelia  to  be  silent. 

"  Did  a  gentleman  ever  bring  a  little  girl  to  your 
house,  to  get  her  boarded  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  woman,  looking  somewhat  guilty. 

"  Did  he  pay  you  for  her  board  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  For  how  long  ?" 

"He  sent  money  every  year,  for  a  number  of  years." 

"  Did  you  liot  send  her  away  to  live  with  some-one  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"With  whom?" 

"Deacon  Webber,  of ." 


OLD  ACQUAINTANCE.  423 

"  Why  did  you  do  that,  when  her  board  was  paid  ?  " 

"  0,  sir,  I  pray  your  mercy !  It  was  not  my  fault ;  in 
deed,  it  was  not !  " 

"Whose  was  it,  then?" 

"  My  husband's." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  his  grave.  He  spent  the  money  for  drink,  and 
he  died  seven  years  ago." 

"  What  did  you  call  the  name  of  the  child  ?  " 

"Helen  Means." 

" Did  the  deacon  know  that  she  was  not  your  child?  " 

"  No." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  him  ?  " 

"Mr.  Means  threatened  to  kill  me,  if  I  told  any  one. 
After  he  got  so  much  money,  he  abused  me  most  shame 
fully  ;  he  was  drunk  half  of  his  time,  both  day  and 
night.  I  stood  in  fear  of  my  life." 

"  I  trust  you  are  telling  the  truth  !  " 

"  It  is  the  truth,  sir,  the  solemn  truth  !  —  and  I  hope 
you  will  believe  me." 

"  You  appear  honest,  and  I  doubt  not  you  are.  Have 
you  heard  from  the  little  girl  since  she  went  to  live  with 
Deacon  Webber  ?" 

"  Only  once,  and  then  he  sent  us  word  that  she  ran 
away.  I  have  had  many  unhappy  hours  thinking  of  that 
poor  child !  " 


424  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

"  Have  you  anything  now  that  belonged  to  the  child 
when  she  was  first  brought  to  your  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  little  locket  that  she  wore  around  her  neck, 
eontaining  some  hair." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stewart ;  "  it  waa 
all  I  had  !  " 

"  Why  did  you  take  it  from  her  neck  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  For  fear  my  husband  should  sell  it  for  rum." 

"  We  would  see  the  locket." 

She  went  into  another  room,  and  soon  returned,  placing 
a  gold  locket  in  my  hand. 

"  Is  this  the  one  ?  "  I  asked,  holding  it  up. 

11  Yes,  yes !  "  said  Mrs.  Stewart,  taking  it,  and  kiss 
ing  it  again  and  again. 

Mrs.  Means  and  her  daughters  looked  on  in  sur 
prise.  Here  I  arose,  and,  taking  Lelia  by  the  hand, 
said, 

"Mrs.  Means,  this  is  my  wife;  and  her  name  was 
once  Helen  Means  !  " 

"  What !  the  little  girl  who  lived  with  us?  " 

"The  very  same.  And  this,"  said  I,  pointing  to 
Mrs.  Stewart,  "  is  her  mother." 

Each  member  of  the  family  regarded  Lelia  as  though 
greatly  astonished.  She  went  and  kissed  them  all,  and 
seemed  well  pleased  to  see  them  again.  Mrs.  Means 
informed  us  that  they  left  Boston  about  the  time  they 
learned  that  Helen  had  run  away,  and  that  her  husband 


OLD   ACQUAINTANCE.  425 

9 

died  soon  after.     They  had  lived  ever  since  in  the  cot 
tage,  she  and  her  girls  binding  shoes,  and  the  boys  work 
ing  for  the  neighboring  farmers.     She  had  six  children ; 
two  boys,  and  four  girls.     Having  asked  and  answered 
all  the  questions  that  were  desirable  on  both  sides,  and 
visited  the  little  creek,  and  other  places  of  interest,  we- 
turned  our  faces  homeward. 
86* 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

CONCLUSION. 

THAT  evening,  as  we  sat  at  the  fireside  in  our  happy 
home,  talking  in  relation  to  the  result  of  our  visit,  which 
we  all  regarded  as  somewhat  remarkable,  we  suddenly 
relapsed  into  silence.  I  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  think  of  buying  the  cottage,"  I  said,  "and  making 
a  present  of  it  to  Mrs.  Means." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart. 

"  So  was  I,"  said  Lelia.  "  I  hope  you  will,  Henri! 
Mrs.  Means  was  always  kind  to  me." 

"  How  would  a  few  acres  of  land  go  with  it  ?  " 

"  My  own  dear  husband,  it  is  just  like  you !  How 
nappy  it  will  make  them  !  " 

"  She  has  had  a  hard  time,  all  her  life,  I  should  think. 
But  there  is  much  of  the  woman  about  her  yet.  How 
tidy  the  house  looked  !  " 

"  I  noticed  that,"  said  Mrs.  Stewart.  "  Let  the  cot 
tage  be  purchased  immediately,  and  that  will  save  them 
rent  through  the  cold  winter,  which  is  near  at  hand." 

"  And  "the  land,"  said  Lelia,  "  will  make  labor  for  the 


CONCLUSION.  427 

» 

boys  next  summer,  and  \vhat  they  raise  enable  the  family 
to  get  a  living,  without  such  severe  toil." 

"  I  like  the  plan,"  I  replied ;  "  and,  as  we  can  spare  a 
few  hundred  dollars  just  as  well  as  not,  the  thing  shall 
be  done  forthwith." 

Not  long  after  this,  I  bought  the  cottage  and  ten  acres 
of  good  land,  and  made  a  present  of  them  to  Mrs.  Means. 
It  relieved  her  heart  of  a  world  of  care  and  anxiety,  and 
she  felt  no  longer  obliged  to  toil  fifteen  hours  per  day. 
The  gratitude  of  the  family  can  be  better  imagined  than 
described.  It  is  pleasant  to  do  good ;  and,  could  this 
truth  be  realized,  good  works  and  charities  would  smile 
upon  us  everywhere,  as  sweetly  as  the  sunlight  of  God. 

A  number  of  years  have  passed  away  since  these 
scenes  occurred,  and  happy  years  have  they  been  to  us. 
Filial,  conjugal  and  parental  love,  this  holy  trinity  in 
unity,  have  ever  filled  our  hearts  with  purest  joy,  and, 
with  their  clear,  shining  light,  made  glad  and  beautiful 
our  home,  brightening,  like  a  ray  from  heaven,  all  the 
pathway  of  life.  Our  number  has  increased,  for  we  have 
two  children,  a  girl  and  boy;  and  we  think  they  are 
the  sweetest  children  in  the  world.  When  our  little  girl 
was  born,  I  claimed  the  right  to  give  her  a  name ;  and  so 
I  called  her  Helen  Means.  Lelia  named  the  boy,  who 
is  two  years  younger  than  Helen,  and  his  name  is  Henri. 

Mrs.  Stewart,  our  good  mother,  is  attaining  unto  a 
blessed  old  age,  and  she  is  one  of  the  best  and  happiest 


428  CONCLUSION. 

old  ladies  I  have  ever  met  with.  How  dearly  she  loves 
little  Helen  and  Henri !  and  they  think  .there  is  nobody 
in  the  world  quite  equal  to  Grandmother  Stewart.  Uncle 
and  Aunt  Eaton  are  frequently  with  us ;  and  then  our  fat 
neighbor,  Mr.  Edgarton,  will  come  in.  and  they  will  talk 
over,  for  the  fiftieth  time,  the  life  and  adventures  of 
Henri  Eaton  and  Helen  Means;  and,  in  the  evening, 
Mr.  Edgarton  and  Mother  Stewart  amuse  themselves 
with  a  game  of  backgammon ;  or,  a  few  neighbors  are 
invited  in,  and  then  Lelia,  or  some  one  else,  will  play  the 
piano,  and  we  have  a  social  dance ;  and  Mrs.  Stewart 
will  join  in  with  us,  as  young  and  spry  as  the  best 
of  us. 

Mr.  Edgarton  will  always  insist  upon  dancing  in  a 
cotillon,  at  least  once  in  an  evening,  with  Lelia  ;  and  when 
"grand  right  and  left"  is  called  for,  he  is  sure  to 
blunder  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  shouts  of  laugh 
ter.  The  old  gentleman  will  shake  his  sides,  and  say  it 
does  him  good  and  reminds  him  of  old  times. 

I  should  have  mentioned  before  that,  on  the  marriage 
of  Thomas  and  Lizzie,  George  went  to  live  with  Thomas, 
and  Lizzie  with  Jane.  They  have  since  married,  and  I 
am  happy  to  say  that  all  my  brothers  and  sisters  are 
doing  well. 

Hezekiah  Webber  and  wife  have  parted  company. 
They  quarrelled  so  much  that  he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of 
her  by  the  sacrifice  of  five  thousand  dollars.  He  retains 


CONCLUSION.  429 

all  the  children  but  the  youngest.  Since  this  occurred, 
Hezekiah  has  disposed  of  all  his  property  in  town,  and, 
with  his*sister  Hannah,  has  gone  to  parts  unknown. 
Job  is  still  here,  and  he  and  his  "wife  are  generally 
respected. 

Hezekiah  and  Hannah  were  long  since  expelled  from 
the  church  which  th6y  disgraced ;  and  I  am  now  satisfied 
that  the  deacon  would  not  have  remained  in  the  church 
so  long,  if  his  true  character  had  been  known  by  a 
majority  of  its  members.  Let  no  one  suppose  that  I 
intend  his  character  as  a  fair  sample  of  any  denomination 
of  Christians ;  for,  although  the  Pharisee  and  hypocrite 
may  be  found  with  all,  so  also  the  good.  There  are 
Deacon  Webbers  in  too  many  churches ;  but  I  trust  there 
are  more  like  Uncle  and  Aunt  Eaton,  and  our  dear 
Mother  Stewart.  Such  good  souls  as  the  last  three 
are  to  be  found  in  the  church  and  out  of  it,  and  their 
influence  is  ennobling  upon  all  who  come  within  its  sphere. 
They  make  the  world  better  and  happier.  They  are 
true  Christians,  whether  they  belong  to  this  sect  or  that, 
or  no  sect. 

I  complain  not  that  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing  should 
be  admitted  into  the  church,  but  that  they  should  so 
frequently  be  allowed  to  remain  there,  when  they  are 
known  to  be  wolves.  They  are  wealthy  or  influential, 
and  therefore  not  to  be  disturbed.  If  they  wrong  a  little 


- 

430  CONCLUSION. 

child,  or  traffic  in  the  bodies  and  souls  of  men,  the  matter 
is  passed  over  as  though  it  were  of  but  little  consequence. 
When  such  things  are  allowed,  the  brother  *  members 
partake  of  the  guilt. 

There  is  another  grievous  fault  with  many  professors, — 
they  unite  with  the  strong  against  the  weak ;  and  it  was 
this  which  so  embittered  my  heart  against  the  church  to 
which  the  deacon  belonged.  I  admit  that  they  might 
have  thought  the  deacon  in  the  right  and  I  in  the  wrong. 
But  they  should  have  investigated  the  matter,  and  so 
have  escaped  the  guilt  of  wronging  the  weak,  the  inno- 
lent  and  the  oppressed.  If  we  allow  ourselves  to  judge 
hastily  and  unadvisedly,  we  should  not  expect  to  judge 
righteous  judgment,  and  so  live  to  repent  of  the  evil  we 
have  unintentionally  been  guilty  of.  The  really  good, 
in  the  church  of  which  the  deacon  was  a  member,  lived 
to  see  their  error  which  they  committed  in  justifying 
him,  and  acknowledged  it  with  sorrow.  But  the  hypo 
critical  "had  always  known  and  said  that  the  deacon  was 
miserly,  pharisaical  and  wicked;"  when  the  truth  was, 
they  had  not  said  one  word  in  condemnation  of  his  course, 
but  justified  it  to  the  fullest  extent,  until  he  was  caught 
robbing  the  very  church  of  which  he  was  deacon  ;  then  they 
were  horror-struck,  for  he  had  committed  the  sin  of  sins  ! 
They  had  not  learned  enough  of  Christ  to  know  that  the 
wrong  done  to  the  little  child  was  a  thousand  times  more 


CONCLUSION.  431 

offensive  in  the  sight  of  God  and  all  good  and  enlightened 
men.  But,  as  the  one  who  suffered  the  greatest  wrong 
freely  forgave  all  who  participated  in  it  (she  who  was 
once  called  Helen  Means),  so  I,  notwithstanding  my 
former  bitter  hatred,  as  freely  pardon.  I  have  learned 
that  it  is  better  to  love  than  to  hate,  to  forgive  rather 
than  seek  revenge. 

I  need  not  tell  the  reader  that  Lelia  is  one  of  the  best 
of  wives  and  mothers,  a  good  neighbor,  and  a  faithful 
friend.  Her  Jieart  is  ever  brimming  with  love  for  both 
friends  and  foes,  and  the  poor  and  destitute  speak  her 
praise  in  words  and  looks  of  love  and  gratitude.  She  is 
a  blessed,  good  woman ;  and  no  other  being  could  so  have 
softened  and  changed  my  hasty  and  impetuous  nature. 
When  I  look  into  the  mirror  of  the  past,  I  am  surprised 
to  see  how  many  unlovely  traits  of  character  I  once  pos 
sessed,  and  I  feel  that  I  have  reason  to  be  thankful  that 
I  am  now  rid  of  them.  Good  fortune  smiled  upon  me 
in  my  younger  days,  or  I  should  have  fared  worse  than 
I  did ;  for,  as  my  temper  was  hasty,  violent,  and  not  con 
trolled  by  reason,  I  might  have  inflicted  upon  the  victims 
of  my  anger  lasting  injury;  and  perchance,  though  I 
shudder  to  think  of  it,  have  taken  the  life  of  a  fellow- 
creature.  Now  my  passions  are  completely  under  the 
control  of  principle ;  and  it  was  love,  faithful  and  true, 
that  did  the  work. 


432  CONCLUSION. 

How  mighty,  how  godlike,  is  love !  Many  waters 
cannot  quench,  nor  floods  drown  it.  Its  mission  is  en 
nobling;  for  it  softens,  purifies  and  elevates  the  human 
heart,  even  as  the  sun  in  the  heavens  melts  the  snows 
and  frosts  of  winter,  breaking  his  chains  of  ice,  awaking 
wide  nature  to  renewed  life,  beauty  and  living  joy  ! 


NOTICES  OF  THE  PEESS.    . 


This  autobiographical  romance,  by  a  new  literary  aspirant,  promising 
creditable  success,  is  a  work  of  exquisite  and  oft-thrilling  interest,  of  high 
moral,  progressive  tone,  and  deals  in  many  details  and  descriptions  of  lifo 
and  nature,  which  alternately  move,  melt  and  agitate.  The  experiences 
of  human  nature  it  unfolds  will  find  a  deep  response  in  thousands  of  sym 
pathetic  hearts,  and  will  render  the  volume  one  of  wide  and  popular  circu 
lation.  It  portrays  some  masterly  love-scenes,  with  touches  of  genuine 
taste  and  purity.  If  the  book  has  some  faults  for  the  blade  of  criticism, 
they  are  more  than  atoned  for  by  the  unaffected  philanthropy,  the  style  of 
simple,  natural  beauty,  the  fresh,  intense  realization  of  the  author,  as  ho 
leads  the  reader  through  various  scenes  and  plots  of  absorbing  interest.  — 
Westchester  Gazette,  Morrisania,  N.  Y. 

This  book  stands  among  the  better  class  of  works  of  fiction.  It  has  a 
prominent  moral  bearing,  and  preserves  its  aim  well  to  the  last.  It  is  well 
worth  the  reading,  and  must  have  a  most  excellent  influence.  —  Tlie  New 
Era, 

This  volume  will  be  most  cordially  welcomed  by  the  novel-reading  pub- 
JAfor  the  interest  of  which  class  it  is  particularly  designed.  It  purports 
wbe  an  autobiography,  not  wholly  fictitious,  is  well  arranged,  well  writ 
ten,  abounding  in  fine  sketches  and  beautiful  paragraphs,  and  is  liberally 
seasoned  with  moral  reflections  and  reformatory  ideas.  Though  not 
designed  to  illustrate  any  particular  point  in  ethics,  the  moral  tone  of  the 
book  is  unexceptionable.  —  Trumpet. 

A  handsome  duodecimo  of  four  hundred  and  thirty-two  page*  in  clear 
type.  We  undertook  to  form  an  opinion  of  this  book  by  a  slight  examina 
tion  ;  failing  in  this,  we  sat  down  and  deliberately  read  the  book  through  in 


2  NOTICES   OF   THE   PRESS. 

one  night.  It  is  a  singular  fiction.  The  author  treads  in  a  new  path,  now 
strewed  with  flowers,  and  now  rugged,  even  terribly  rough  with  huge 
boulders  and  jagged  precipices,  along  which  he  rushes  with  a  steadiness 
and  perseverance  surprising.  The  plot  is  a  good  one,  and  the  story  is  well 
told;  many  of  the  fierce  characters  being  terribly  true  to  nature.  —  South 
Boston  Gazette  and  Chronicle. 

This  is  a  very  readable  and  interesting  work,  sparkling  .with  brilliant 
passages,  and  breathes  a  kind  spirit.  The  preface  is  a  model.  —  Christian 
Ambassador. 

With  very  little  pretension,  tbis  is  one  of  the  most  readable  books  of  the 
season.  It  is  peculiar  in  its  plot,  but  more  peculiar  in  the  varied  power 
and  intensity  of  its  delineation.  There  is  much  about  it  that  would  hardly 
bear  criticism  as  a  literary  effort,  while  again  there  are  whole  pages  of 
description  scarcely  excelled  by  any  writer  for  originality  of  thought,  and 
strength  and  beauty  of  expression.  The  characters  are  well  drawn,  and 
with  the  scenes  of  their  activity  are  vividly  impressed  upon  the  mind. 
There  is  much  of  truth  in  its  fiction,  and,  as  a  whole,  it  is  a  production  of  a 
marked  character.  —  Boston  Daily  Commonwealth. 

W.  G.  Cambridge,  a  gentleman  very  well  known  in  these  parts,  —  the 
author  of  some  letters  published  a  few  years  ago  in  the  Christian  Freeman, 
which  at  that  time  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention,  —  has  come  out  with 
a  novel,  published  by  Messrs.  Tompkins  and  Mussey,  entitled  "  Henri  ;  or 
the  Web  and  Woof  of  Life."  The  appearance  of  this  book  makes  quite  a 
sensation  among  the  author's  numerous  acquaintances.  I  know  not  how 
many  have  asked  me,  "  Have  you  read  Cambridge's  novel  1 "  One  individ 
ual  told  me  that  some  things  in  it  were  equal  to  anything  in  Dickens.  — 
New  England  Correspondence  of  the  Star  in  the  West. 

It  abounds  with  exalted,  comprehensive  sentiments,  expressed  in  a  novel 
style,  fresh  and  pure,  and  is  a  work  of  deep  and  thrilling  interest.  —  Hmg 
ham  Journal. 

Our  recent  notice  of  the  book  with  the  above  title  (written  by  W.  G. 
Cambridge,  and  published  by  Abel  Tompkins)  failed  to  give,  as  we^P1- 
oeive,  on  a  closer  inspection,  any  adequate  idea  of  the  real  character  and 
merits  of  the  production.  Taken  as  a  whole,  we  regard  it  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  as  well  as  readable  books  of  the  season.  The  author  is 
one  of  that  class  who  cannot  disguise  or  withhold  what  he  deems  an  import 
ant  truth,  out  of  regard  to  popular  prejudices  ;  nor  has  he  considered  him 
self  bound  to  folloAv  in  the  beaten  track  of  canonized  taste  in  the  plot  or  the 
details  —  the  web  or  the  woof —  of  his  story.  Consequently  he  will  be  dif 
ferently  appreciated  by  different  readers  ;  he  will  have  ardent  admirers 


NOTICES   OF   THE   PRESS.  3 

and  strong  dislikers,  fast  friends  and  severe  enemies.  But  he  stands  not 
alone  among  authors  in  this  characteristic  ;  nor  can  we  say  that  it  is  an 
altogether  undesirable  one.  The  leading  aim  of  the  work  seems  to  be  to 
trace  the  defects  of  personal  character,  and  the  evils  which  afflict  the  social 
state,  to  their  true  sources,  and  to  show  the  legitimate  influence  of  passion, 
harshness  and  avarice,  in  the  parental  and  domestic  relations,  upon  the 
dispositions  and  after  lives  of  those  who  are  coming  upon  the  stage  of  action. 
It  also  finely  exhibits  the  regenerating,  moulding,  harmonizing  power, 
over  these  perverted  and  misdirected  minds,  of  the  divine  transforming 
principle  of  love.  The  theology  of  the  book  is  not  altogether  of  the  popu 
lar  cast,  but  its  morality  is  uncompromising,  reformatory  and  unexception 
able.  We  are  pleased  to  learn  that  a  second  edition  is  already  called  for. 
—  Boston  Pathfinder. 

This  is  a  truly  interesting  talc,  ingenious  in  its  plot,  clear  in  its  narra 
tion,  frequently  thrilling  in  its  description,  and  reformatory  in  its  tendency. 
The  author  says,  "  I  have  written  this  book  with  the  very  best  intentions, 
hoping  that  it  might  do  good,  and  receive  a  welcome  in  many  homes." 
Such  a  welcome  it  deserves  ;  and  into  whatever  family  it  may  go,  it  can 
not  fail  to  affect  the  feelings  and  absorb  the  attention  of  both  old  and 
young.  Each  of  the  characters  is  skilfully  drawn  :  the  youthful  Henri, 
impulsive,  sanguine,  generous  and  daring  ;  the  young  ruffian  with  whom 
he  had  his  first  encounter  in  a  chivalrous  defence"  of  a  poor,  ragged  child  ; 
Helen  Means,  the  narrative  of  whose  sufferings  4irill  draw  tears  from 
many  a  juvenile  eye,  and  whose  history  will  excite  the  wonder  and  admir 
ation  of  children  both  of  a  smaller  and  "  a  larger  growth  ;  "  the  sul 
phurous,  pharisaical,  tyrannous  and  miserly  Deacon  "Webber  ;  Mrs.  Stew 
art,  the  peace-making,  benignant,  sorrow-stricken  ;  Irene  Dinneford,  the 
fascinating;  Ernest  Brown,  the  love-stricken  and  desponding;  the  sensible 
and  kind  old  uncle,  <fec.  <fec.  —  Boston  Liberator. 

It  is  a  work  which  much  pleased  us  in  the  perusal.  Inwrought  into  its 
argument  are  several  reformatory  and  progressive  ideas.  —  Essex  County 
freeman. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  novels.  It  takes  you  through  checkered 
scenes  ;  but  his  characters  are  life-like,  even  the  hardest  of  them  ;  and  he 
goes  straight  through  all  crooked  ways  with  the  principle  of  reform  and 
progress.  The  terrible  evils  of  a  false  system  of  parental  government  arc 
thrillingly  delineated,  and  the  retributive  action  of  God's  laws  is  placed  in 
an  unmistakable  light.  The  plot  of  the  story  is  good,  and  the  details  run 
in  such  strange  channels,  that  your  interest  is  on  the  stretch,  and,  having 
begun,  you  dislike  to  suspend  its  reading  till  you  have  finished  it.  —  Box- 
ton  Christian  Freejnan. 


4  NOTICES   OF  THE   PRESS. 

This  is  an  autobiographical  romance,  and  smacks  of  the  real,  in  spirit,  if 
not  in  letter.  The  book  has  plenty  of  faults,  as  a  work  of  art,  and  seems 
to  us  to  be  far  from  true  to  nature  in  some  of  its  scenes  and  characters,  but 
it  contains  many  passages  of  true  pathos  and  unmistakable  power.  There 
is  a  sort  of  Dickens-like  flavor  in  some  of  the  scenes,  which  touches  the 
heart  at  once,  however  much  the  head  may  criticize.  —  Phrenological 
Journal. 

In  the  conception  of  the  story,  the  author,  for  a  first  attempt,  has  cer 
tainly  evinced  a  good  degree  of  artistic  skill.  In  his  design  to  set  forth 
some  of  the  wrong  phases  which  society  presents,  he  has  portrayed  some 
very  strong  cases  of  hatred  and  revenge,  and  shown  up  the  hypocrisy  of 
some  pretenders  to  religion  who  have  used  its  cloak  for  their  deeds  of  wick 
edness  and  cruelty  ;  or,  as  the  poet  aptly  hath  it,  who  have 

"Stolen  the  livery  of  heaven 
To  serve  the  devil  in." 

But  the  result  has  been  the  triumph  of  the  right. 

There  are  many  "  lights  and  shadows  "  of  life  presented  in  this  book, 
and  many  thrilling  scenes  sketched,  though  the  coloring  may  seem  strong. 

The  work  is  well  calculated  to  show  how  much  may  be  accomplished, 
even  with  the  turbulent,  by  mild  and  tender  treatment  ;  while  it  is  also 
shown  how  harshness  ten<Js  to  sour  the  disposition,  to  rouse  combativcness, 
and  give  strength  to  pugnacity. 

The  work  will  afford  useful  hints  to  parents  in  the  government  of  their 
children ;  to  young  people  for  its  truthfulness  and  purity  ;  and  to  all,  the 
book  will  be  worth  reading.  —  Dover  Gazette. 

This  book,  as  its  title  imports,  is  an  attempt  to  unveil  the  heart  in  its 
overy-day  manifestations,  —  to  exhibit,  not  a  dead,  soulless  manikin,  but  a 
living  embodiment  of  the  philosophy  of  human  life.  Its  incidents  have  the 
rare  quality  and  attribute  of  being  true  to  actualities  ;  its  narratives  are 
simple,  unaffected  and  natural ;  and  the  high  moral  tone  of  the  book  will 
commend  it  to  quarters  where  much  of  the  popular  reading  never  finds 
admission. —  Lowell  Daily  Journal  and  Courier. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)45S 


N2  417765 

Cambridge,  W.G. 
Lelia  Stewart. 


C8 
LU 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


